Holidays again. A violet mist.
This is prison.

(You have the evidence. Ugh!)

Losers = worshippers of their detractors.
Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents,
From which large scale dull instruments get tossed.

We drink to our mistakes.

I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was
Wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also a director here — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, stranded leaving war to the professionals.