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{jordan} ted jean Stop! your bawling repinement of the minor pickles in the crossing of this wetland: yes, on the mucky downgrade, you are prone to skid, face it, onto your ass, my precious, squealing pule, arms outflung rather nancily; or mincing the mossy roundrock, wincing that your feets might eternally bruised be; unlikely, anyway, that long. Constrain your nettle thrashing, son. And if a dry brown cane of blackberry rip thee all along thine calf to bring up bright black blood, Wait, why are we here? No, really, stop a second, Reflect: redwing blackbird, tired of attack, sings his heart out on the reed; frogs are chorus; the essential creek is, after all, cool, simple, stony. |
