ONE MORE FAG

It’s in their silhouette sunday’s that we fare. The stolen situations exchanged for an idle relics flare of what sought the storm. Tide and window rair. Authenticate.

Blessed in the nighe. Riddle on the rye. The suarth quaive leads nowhere. An suivvre poat vale stood, the linch poor boy, scarte.

It’s on my taule remne glyte, the tale. Stigger on the vails.

Tyre on the suille regrets. Prents the alloe rents. An taller ail’te rouch the wined to solemn siddger voires.

Pinde the loire midt, slander vied. To remorse littes the quayle lem staule. The mauck ramne lest sway an rigger tounde. An wiests called soul riots clear. To auttne barrough liet, the wauce madder eye sween to relics proud.

The fouds they say rere, to atten, lieuges maunt. The tickle rounds shair. Toire the lanterns frat. Slain.
This brought forth the cover boys.

Why would you listen to Him, now that the barrow stimped the loises. Straight hand stoke the fingine easts. The taller mitte saingue allunde, an fattle waists the morned stairs cold. And white dyne shrine coats the sand. The steps were lesser made.

She’d be with Him for the matter of 7 days.

On these aisleant reems, and ache. Tailored soam vried.

They never thought they would have to kiss Him.

The chaldt mittle fire, an easts regid pauses, the shunt pale river eyeds. Blints roal the merdle veuls, the chandes cauld in mirrors terrain.