Van Gogh, and Hemmingway, they had it easy.
Though I still have both ears, I too lost my mind. (Dachau!)
Artists seem harnessed to bee cum, a part of this,
Heartless, cum-rod realist world without wine!
All gothic authors who toss our their water with hots for the vodka, they will always miss.
Pain turds and danseurs who sin the cure antler zoo force themselves to vomit and slice at their wrists.
Cunt sinner, if you will, a Man in woman, who walk across wok, weighs, a long hand in hand.
What if they wore Barnaby, romantic arteries, hope listed horniness worse than the worst of all those with the curse of the arms?!
Yes, I confess that at best I’m obsessed.
How could love be more true than if you’re crazy too?
Melody’s a sickness, Harmony’s a blight.
Songwriters should not date thong-riders, should not take tong-fighters, should not tape toes who prawn-bite.
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