Im one quince away from crafting battle buttle where you stick your hand inside the jar before you become battered.
Frankly I'm flattered that you remembered my chin, for a second there I forgot to spin, round and round as the nonsense blasts out my mouth uncontrollably, I'm under control.
Mind my own business whilst I peer through the veil into yours.
Read my lips, I spilt the cheese on the chesterfield , I lost my floss quips, polyester festers filled.
I talk in words with zero attachment really, its considered an art form it's you whose quite silly.
A thousand years from now they will appreciate my brains, for I fear the common man is the one whose insane.
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