A feast of friends

Wow, I'm sick of doubt live in the light of certain south cruel bindings.

The servants have the power dog-men and their mean women pulling poor blankets over our sailors.

I'm sick of these dour faces staring at me from the tv tower, I want roses in my garden bower; dig?

Royal babies, rubies must now replace aborted strangers in the mud these mutants, blood-meal for the plant that's plowed.

They are waiting to take us into the severed garden.

Do you know how pale and want on thrillful comes death on a strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed.

Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.

No more money, no more fancy dress, this other kingdom seems by far the best until it's other jaw reveals incest and loose obedience to a vegetable law.

I will not go.

Prefer a feast of friends

To the giant family.

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