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Updated on October 13, 2011

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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