Becoming a lard is the muse of a fat cow.
Having a slab of butter invigorates within.
So forging the ticket for a fat person.
Going down so low as to not know how.
Marina is at the trench of a batholith emerging.
Flying over to forge the fake flag.
Bottling up at the warm fire of the grotto.
So that smoothly flows the melting icing.
Trying to give your kisses consolation.
Grandiose and machismo in your devils' lap,
Rastafarian in the stomach of your faeces.
You then fathom scarcity without pre-menstrual organisation.
Not finding this tantalizingly to the tongue,
Sombre and plagiarist at a minima.
Play, play.
Play with that tongue.
Tango your tongue.
Tempestuosly as if it is a beautiful night.
As it is so wonderful tonight.
For your selective timbre of chord.
Written on Christmas in the month of Christmas 1999,
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