The pile lake scene of the warm east side,
from exile north of your cosy home fide.

The olden time was 6 in my wristwatch,
I'm scratching the colden cloying chocolate.

I brought up a ruddy colour tent,
fought with me and you asked, "can I rent?"

Sleeping frill together gazing face to face,
spilling sense under a blue blanket,

Your ripe gasping slumping on my soft lips,
I laid my rasping bag between our frost face.

Your watery blue eyes smiled but you're not,
cause you know why I did.

Classic grace talks,...