Aunt Jemima, yes dear, I am sinful.
Please swallow your tongue.
The wind is blowing colorfully here.
The sun wraps itself around immortal evenings.
You don't have to bring your fire to this vast oily field.
We have our own.
Your eyes are a lie, a white beam erected upon a
system,
a promise you once heard
and decided to somehow embrace.
May the sand wrap you mercifully
into oblivion.
Baby, cold water never tasted so good.
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