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Mint of the Republic |
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The Republic is trussed. God froth the Devil, be by women everywhere. Lawyers and their opening "you"s, the Great Century Chin, busting through the glass. We allergic all-the-time. Out you waft. They molten up coinage to backflip teeth, only me neck tremble pink, though we came on by wit, Mister. For spices. For herbs. Coffee-table meat. The king's dark choice. Blackbone farmers to be the shards they tout, get axed on, publicly, while the lacemaker embalms the rapist with moon oils. Sitting cold-dead, revolver in the sky: Justice Blood. She seeing at you. What you gonedo. |
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