Interpret the whistling, Is it
not the tea? Maybe its a reckoning!
Wait for the secret word to be said
and silently remove your head.
Come to the playground and dig
our worms, then eat our dirt.
There is a whisper in here in the
front room and it's politely passing away.
Go to the underside near the
vibrant dead moons means and cut
out all of our brain cells carelessly!
Its pretty isn’t it! It sparkles and
shines, Over all dead presidents.
And worn out syringed politics
Interlaced inside us some where in
that soft cottons golden and wet sign.
Aren’t you the one whom wishes to die?
Take your number and wait in line
forget thy birthdays and replace
them with live hand grenades.
Going far are you, I see
well then could I catch a ride to
Desolatus and dirty covered
seats with despise filled crevices.
Could you not finish eating ?
No its not the tea
It seems to be the
Malevolent crashing wave's
of this so called earth's
hateful and painful
Yet beautiful sea's.
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