| le_statement_personal_de_george | ||
| both of us |
His men were like he, Twisted, tangly, They could never be free, For they were zombies, Of the highest calibre, you see. One day an alchemist came riding by. (not base metals to gold, but convention defy, and gravity fold.) A sight, such that faeries tease- Your sound? Ivory piano keys. Your spirit, sexy embers paining once proud coal, Orchestra tuning up; your soul. And caught them on the end of his beard. T¡¦was a most painful event In the tent at Canterbury. Well, said poemen (Rather strainedly) and fetching wounded marksmen from his hair, help! Help! Helpelp! It¡¦s what I¡¦m here to do, I won¡¦t be at any other time this week, I don¡¦t think. ƒ¼ |
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