A lark

I am going down the river like a spooky stream never faltering
I am coming to turn with the hindsight,
there is a girl lurking around for the love,
I cannot love what is known to me, I want God,
and its lasting lymph of neurotic science,
I care for the erotic bigwig looking over the shoulder,
and diving into the vortex of love. I must compromise,
my thought with my body that dribbles more of saliva,
in running the Antilles for bread and water,
The dog seemingly obey the master only for refuge,
of the unkind that deserves to be buried underneath,
a superior emotion of the master.


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