fuck the poet.  Botha Poetch.  pOeitch.  Poeith.  Poith.

Fuck the peas, the carrots.  ( )  With a red hot poker.

Beatrice  Beatrix.  xe.  Xue.

Bass onnette was a toil or/of trouble, up on tundra soil.  Coil. oil. And the items, when you wish them, they reappear.


Sundra Bleuoile.
From upon off the floor, float, tingle in their dizziness, but there, alas, alas, yes... they do reappear... 

In their vast innocence and benevolence... ..  

The soot that rose, from one clomped foot galumphing in utter hatred, stayed in air for a bit, stagnantly floateth, but
not forever; hopefully it will fade in time, not to be trodden upon in carpet woes for very long or ever again... ..


Their stood the rose...

Their stood the rose...
The air of which is the err of dust.  Er.

The music of the reddened bottle,
The music of which is rust.

The dust coming up fares better than I,
for I am the tortoise competing 'gainst
pious salt of earth.


Tillation  tilation.  "Titilation and fuck"

There's nothing to this... ..  Searching.  For one's true self and love.  Above. 

Aboe.  Abeo.

It's not over there... .. at all.  atal  at al  attall atall.  attal.  

fuck the press.


In'em on'em and with'em. I shall swoop, swoon, and honey be.

Fuck the past... .. . .

The world is such a scary place with lots of bite,  lots of scary bite now.  Mark you.  down.  ACross the arm,
You've bought the farm, haven't you.   /       ?