How many Easters in the cathedral with these old friends and teachers, and now I just want a picture of a lightbulb with lipstick on it
I don't want the murky glass to my lips, just the whistles, everyone in the club should have these whistles and all of them blown and until the missionaries leave we will stop showing sugar, it's the taste for cane that made the bluebird, patient to controversy, pace into the anatomy of a– lure you til the morning clapping like a born again sweet -sweet at the motor, sweet shore in his own words, hand me your arrows, and a shirt for collateral and it'd be slick. That combination of seduction and reassurance, spy movies, the 50s, the new look, the crease in your eyes in your slacks, your mouth at the reed, hurry up and be quiet about something
