 | Field where wonders lay thrown. The prow over a tin blister. The skin of naval tact. Rain, seven out of ten, then you see a blind man. Sewage forded by wurst canoe. He had a gold breakfast. No great advantage. The gorgeous brassy breath wavers and seven old oaks wilt on your head. In a little time be myself again. Who would have done more worn spells and charm'd you from heaven. |
No comments:
Post a Comment