The gut stutter

Squat and loud a matter of ill-arranged matter.
The working day fought the waking night.
Made a baby with an adder called it principle.
A two-day foray around tusks of adolescents.
Their spy jewelry chatterings of privilege.
Rude skin cells they hustle ill-arranged.

The aging of good simpletons is slowed down.
Howdy do polite as sneaking police people.
Yonder there a ram hanged from a spice tree.
Split into quarters the little mealy hand.
What much did the fingers ever ask for?
How fluidly did they talk their joints away?

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~ by Jeremy on April 2, 2012.

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