What the benevolent more-sights of one to be seen, and the word’s poor… Niagara Falls, they’re seen, of upper-commanded when heavy-handed, ice to the milli-tude of a strict girl—her so prude, and Sebastian, he’s taking casting to the Captain of Mr. Morgan’s gratitude, a friend again, sometime soon on Geneva Street where there’s owners of broken mufflers, take the MMJ “puffing” to be of yours… and mine of yesteryear—that’s time behind, time to un-wind and whisper kisses of green smoked up with cough-ing syrups emptied, being unable to arise from being in bed—the best guy, on planet Earth, of course: is my Dad tied with Elon, husking summertime yellow buds (Colonel B.) the kernels of kennels Dogecoin (invested) and craving Kraft chicken noodle—the suits—my dressy vest, promoted to daily wear—that I swear, and so sweet and sweating when nothing turns on the way I planned—asshole unbeared and Mr. D’s lips and him limp, when taking me in—is being a faggot a Sin?

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bwE5IU4pzA)

With wank and yank and summ’o’ dat “CRANK”—my perused and used hesitation in the Worcester, MA “Nation” of what was meant to take creed of what we agreed—it wasn’t homosexual because I LOVE WOMEN ONLY!

IT WAS ALL THE CHEMICAL!