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Furiously restoring my mouth's cleanliness, I bathe them in tooth-soap. What is it? What type of rhyme? Do I want to ask (hallucinate) how the time is worthy of the ascent?
How clime? How modern and to the point. Direct with an obstacle of portence. What, when all is seemingly lost, that the those of my tubes and the socks of an outregistered feather is hope for a fundamental differing kind of duplicitous wrong.
All the outcasts... all the sufferers, won't wait till they've mocked a man on a tree and left the dirty reputable knob wanting more. Respect. That's all. Honesty. And deliverance.