Indeed for every brain to go there's more to little. it's paring along soup , canned to
intent , "les reves des autres " sir, yes sir, sire to its hawk , calender of every amazing story,, board ,,
not room and board to her thigh [s] baked bean ,,
of Being & nothing she's told ,,
her dress ,,, here's the place, she came, inside her lenting thighs ,,, as wished her kilt,
lifting off, high over the grace of her be(coming) & coming again as any wave does, cursed by the sigh, a fell-down calender, spell me not true, to her wishing bone , no longer an I, to speak ,
tittle to her shyster , she's bravura to her con grape leaved vie ~ .
wld peak this cress , as fun to her moon, ass to her cry , any shiver ,, does ,, me timber
,, s ,,, buster . like made the soup hefted spoon, putter'd the can, felt the tip fen, fenneled her root and "pan-can" missing to re not da in so re me fa so la ti do,
[you mean Doctor LaCan?]
is that how it end ?
come now , , you up-phrase me with yer hypocrisies and ,
she's bending down her grapes
holding to the terror dawn,
at each plate of soup
burled like a tiger ,,
its the bye-bye beginning of another
as each was wasp
to its told
she carried its mold outdoor
not bothering to shift the drag
on her wake in any other sender
holding her corresponding lover ,, back , his wheeled drive stuck ,, her gear ,
not a trout to play any other way ,
ducky, you see what I mean?
ducky? Ducky? d'ya See what I mean?
take sheet here and bend coil for finding wrapping paper