Summer Chef, let dress-blues rest.

Interesting game it is for these little wolves dispersed in anonymity just function in everyday sight as if I haven’t seen you in scope just to cover
Your ass
And clockwatch for the 13th drop and The Parable, to frankly happen.

Other shoes and I’ve discussed the throwing over the laces over the fry-towers.
And somehow, there is no stigma in this digital accord that feels like nonsense monotony, but better than a mutt eating pupchow after an
Arena circle crew showed you
What coordination looks like.

In the World of Surreal Mysticism.

To shoo away the shrew that conjured up a monthly flu
And somehow I seem weak for a job
That eats me inside internally, in the abstract metaphor sense.
Lame game and today I choose to belittle shame.

I air out all my secrets and whip the terminology of Sacred Truth as a misguided narrator that will take you to the cosmos of discord and de-strum the guitar just to whip new strings
Into organ-piano flings and I will let them breathe in contralto.

Shoot the Shit with me, Rosebud.
I wish another would.
As all my opponents are my teammates and coworkers sounds like cohort
Compared to the intimacy
Of my
Docu-sign signature
In shadow bright. Nun.