On dead hands of an author will I say not. I have chundered something already.
What words must I speak then? What words that sleep I with some lullaby sweet tonight, what words? What song must I sing, here is Billie telling me to leave her alone just as well? Will thee listen to this sound of my soul in a day or two?
'Tis bombardment I know, a barrage of my mind again. Will not one ear be erect now. Why! why won't thee hear?
Am I to genuflect on this concrete and wish upon this trace, an old trace of one hath I lost in the eyes of a child to find my way to thee ? So tell me what must I sing.
Alas! Thou speak not. Will my queries be a whirlpool of my tears anon.
Ask I again, oh yes I do. Hear me mother! hear me right here. What grotesque smile must I smile for thee to be behold this twist of me cheeks' skin? On what reason shall I talk more? I am so drowsy again.
'Tis deluge of questions in two; can the number find a room in thy chest in just a blink, and I, oh my mater in e negligee am I aware of in the only kitchenette of the house, won't thou tell me what syllable must I utter? I am afraid, will I be stultified much earlier than I should. Thou see, art thou slipping from the cracks of my phalanges so easily. Alack! How shall I keep thou here?
Will I tell thee in this sight my eyes had a jiffy agone as kissed one lid the mouth of the other. Will I acquaint thou with that dream I beheld....