~
hang the cliché ( éhcilc eht gnah )
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snow, my sweet crab apple of my hind's eyepatch lo, the sunset is mould but the bread smells of noses & the hills are a hive as my harp is aflame & the turds sing a dove off the lame hymn sheet so the twat has nine lives & the garden is dozy like a squawk in the park or a scab in the dark in the blink of a pie with a sink & a cod i am frost in your thighs like a rabbit in your head lice ( ? ) ...