Roses devour the silver square.
The highways leak remote control.
Persian face-lines babel,
medallions rattle the shattering sore.
Slag-tins borrow sputum trail.
The tallest pig is the purest ego.
Cover its soul in Paper Mache.
Eye pupils cough out the armadillo tanks.
Tomorrow’s parafoamius will be re-written
by the earless punk.
Light-headed gas, points me towards my paws.
If we steam our words right,
Emily Dickson might turn treads into steganography duh.
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