Correspondence for Mr. Elliot
Pretty words do not make a face into the ashes of tomorrow Thomas.
The Mississippi churns with mud and cum Thomas, a hometown boy done rude.
Burnt Edward was a scoundrel until he was eaten by Alfred.
Tennyson wasn't real Thomas, tell me about it Alfred, the dim lit rooms and down fur.
In the rooms women chortle so, screeching about their dear aunt flo.
Michelangelo was an oyster shelled juke-joint sovereign
Mermaids calling yet Thomas?
What voices reach into the ground?
Does your grotto recieve this transmission?
How do I measure my days if not by omission?
Whose love song is this?
Whose love song is this?
Are you looking back at me from the barque of hell Thomas?
A bullet at the ground, it surely won't miss
Now will it Thomas?
The Mississippi churns with mud and cum Thomas, a hometown boy done rude.
Burnt Edward was a scoundrel until he was eaten by Alfred.
Tennyson wasn't real Thomas, tell me about it Alfred, the dim lit rooms and down fur.
In the rooms women chortle so, screeching about their dear aunt flo.
Michelangelo was an oyster shelled juke-joint sovereign
Mermaids calling yet Thomas?
What voices reach into the ground?
Does your grotto recieve this transmission?
How do I measure my days if not by omission?
Whose love song is this?
Whose love song is this?
Are you looking back at me from the barque of hell Thomas?
A bullet at the ground, it surely won't miss
Now will it Thomas?