You are the fired one, to rip apart those documents in the bottom spot in the backyard, you groan,
It’s the gray mold in the shoe she eats, then devours more with a horde to make a toenail stew, your going to if, is that you stewing, dissed and repeating, with odd ears that dislikes poetry, and deep in,
Within the heart is destiny I go wherever and then debt collects to the ceiling.
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