Scurrying down the lane on
Lonely lonesome winsome afternoons rocking along
To bluebird songs Songs
Write out their verses to give out hell
Or ochre yellow acres of Of
All that's left in his cadaver.
Keep on running it with fish fish
fingers, like Doctor Doctor
doctor, give me the me the
way I love her almond shaped eyes eyes
so all that's left is to surmise surmise
the motivation for repeatedly writing the same thing
as the last time. But a certain
red yarn felt best once the mitts were well worn.
-finished 8/28/2014 10:11:16 PM PST
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