MG (? / Chicago Illinois/Oklahoma City.)

Skinny Dippin' Sippin'/

Willowy wisp's of smog layden dreams...
Can at times bring about wettish dreams of cream.
Dreams felled foul with evil lurking in every corner...
Can surmise to thee across a many sinful border.
Why do dreams begin filled horror? ...
What has fulfilled this brained sinned storer?
Does this statement last-make one evil to the corer? ...
A dinasaur chases right behind thee.
Keep watchin' now, to see thy cowardly deepened flee...
Giant bugs can prey on it's holy roller rollers that pray.
These bugs so big, have had their happy feeding frenzied day...
Crosses of the mount cannot keep out the evil filled vampired shout.
While'st lying on thy desert isle get away...
While'st being served mixed drinks fro' frumply scant dressed undressedly bare naked mistresses of thy night.
Lips held tightly to mine neck....
Bitten blood done dripped real redded dread.
Hark thy angels do sing to me...
Wake up young Prince.
Wake up for thee...
Snowmen dangle ice sickles to all show.
Perchanced this untimely meeting, bafore the shinning shore...
Dreams of flying as through the air.
Does this under neath feelings mean that i dare to never more thee care? ...
A Planter's Peanut sipping deeply onto a glass Martini and Rossi at last.
Guarantees a fun filled partying animal celebrational happy blow out blast...
Panda Bears dance round yon stripper's pole.
Is this to be one's far fetched wishful goal? ...
How shall'st i ever'est know?
Climb back up on that high mountain top...
Shall'st i fall or shall'st i tend to clutzingly drop?
Wake me upp'th to fulfillfully drink of thy youthful engifting cup...
I bask thyself of enough is enough of this nerve racking tough stuff.
Here'st i lay to sip, dine and supp...
Are we-a skinny dippin' sippin' as of yet?
No no no, Miss Nanette...
Forever more as dare i fear to ever bleakly forget.
Wake up mister Johnny let her up...
Dream is more of no no more tomorrow sorrows.
Visions of wakeness becomes my forever filled tomorrows...
Awakened at last.
This blast from ungrateful past...
Are not we the final next last?
Von Boyage good sarge at large...
These dreams are varily smallenly gone.
Wakey, wakey-Good Sir Flakey!

by Michael Gale

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