Thursday, December 5, 2013

My Beautiful Petrarchan Sonnet (Haha not really)

Oh you, who in these hilly eggs may find echoes of turkeys that I once doused my salad when I was coughing, when I was still in ballad this rhapsody you ate, that Tasmanian devil now chomp behind; if you yourself have had 3062 write to jog in the pretzel's extreme of stressful moon, smelly shoe, balanced between yucky nails, sweet love-in-a shell, I pray you'll ride and hammer and drill. There's music stands of me on every moth in town, and I know why; although I trip that speaker, speaker's not the deepest bull why I carry, nor even the coconut, but that yummy atom of molecule how it's all a fairy tale, all that we say, all that we jump to keep.

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