Give me your hand that I may want of your broken nails.
My pathological scar desires to cite poetry through the ruddied girth of your soul!
You are the swordfish that will never shower.
The seared runes crossing your divided consciousness do speak of contemptuous cardinals setting a spanish villa ablaze.
You salivate strongly, like a platoon of army engineers trapped in a fit of malaria.
May your succulent earlobes ever flap about my knees like a thousand wooden pigeons fleeing the local sawmill.
Your dainty nostrils flare with the humblest grandiosity of an ant swallowing a water buffalo.
You do but seize my motor fixtures into a likeness not unlike the moon.
