In a string of appraisal, sitting
central like a realistic xylophone playing tech from garage. In mess I
protest to a happening, the light we sing in, the clothes we dress in-, and
the way we dance keeps us parallel when we stop moving.
If I could improve on voice feature, I'd turn on green to show more love
towards the planet, if only I could echo like it, I'd need a hollow secret
to keep me tuning sweet.
As if the hearts harp is wedged under the foot, if I shook you in a clasp of
symbol you'd be as mental as me.
What a pleasure that'd be? In an area called the central, we the speech in
choir and the sound of drama.
If only you could stop stamping on we, the little ants that parade the
opera.
