With yellow, red and roomy food, and quivered Crouching on a golden cushion Undressed himself to disappear Through an infinity of pleasure And smiled to free the running me With am I my brother's keeper? His meek hand on devils gloves Shaping running blood.
The prophecy, to recreate the truth In visions of a seasonal mood In truth, the only sight he saw Lay hidden in the bathroom door And spat on the rug As high is high, so low is low And that's the end of it.
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