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miss.
miss,
Be me you,
I'd still love you.
Only you.
And make my Suiters bleat.
Tell me, potrait of african dreams.
How does it feel to be beauty in this rotten existence.
To be cute, in a pit?
Do you ever cling onto someone,
With your soft little palms,
And your voice,
Melodious as it is,
Begging them to stay?
How are your days.
How does it feel to have the gorgeous there's of things for feet,
And pure wool for a skin?
Isn't your toothbrush lucky,
To visit between those lips every morning.
And your sheets to spend nights between your thighs?
Thee logophile
© Thee logophile
Be me you,
I'd still love you.
Only you.
And make my Suiters bleat.
Tell me, potrait of african dreams.
How does it feel to be beauty in this rotten existence.
To be cute, in a pit?
Do you ever cling onto someone,
With your soft little palms,
And your voice,
Melodious as it is,
Begging them to stay?
How are your days.
How does it feel to have the gorgeous there's of things for feet,
And pure wool for a skin?
Isn't your toothbrush lucky,
To visit between those lips every morning.
And your sheets to spend nights between your thighs?
Thee logophile
© Thee logophile
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