certain poetry fade

Oh my god, who whaps on clocked meetings, who stomps with guesses, who looks under beaded frail to consider all the torment of rock sung peopling, who is near a gutter when we cry, who does a dopey thing with ribbing right along, who in the ways of serious inference treats a gas lane as in between the meat. Oh god the right check and bouncy thru the street light. Locks of treaty fester. Munching nicely in the news front creates the habit of known loose. Stopping close to next to nothing means nothing. The rat bastard that swung around, the sleek mumbling pushiness, the bubbly after reaching, the stern as crust becomes in rarity night: how much do we play the music on average over renounced trapdoor arrangement for listening to a just radio, or do we just report hard instant cash reserves to give the need inside? Dull pulse to pose for weather.