I weigh your music, your great granddad’s piece about

Bang you’re dead
Average, self-guilt along with bland lucky tones, a problem. No gist, too popular.
So relax thine form here.

Everything dark-accented inflates 3 dimensions into immense mist of

Taxing yarns. Poor wee sparrow’s beaten yet breathing

True to form A.

The unequal in luck float more already. I hope they’re happy.