Wikipedia Poem, No. 872
Don’t you know cops’ sole purpose is to lock us down?
— Freeway
Follicle of his argument
his private specialist
his miracle
after two forbiada farbiotan by that point
I’m asked to replace danger in the garment
hand bloated forbid, proud to have you.
To have had you late
in Act 1, Belfagor appears a brief lurch in a private house
that house this attorney’s genesis
two seventeen — in the day that you eat of it, you will surely
die — if it holds the rock you will need daughters to force
sincerely glad and gold
of the mountainable
of his might became
such a miracle, afterworld, then danced.
Something’s passing over this town.
Is it the horse-hidden follicles?
By that, who were you?
I was a sincere paw printing of my own mark.
Is this some celebratory procession for his victorious general?
