Stolen Cotswolds rich person’s favourite best ‘daughter’ – the same (sane) one which sings in the midst of a deepening evening-time sentimental sensation it seems. Fine wine pressed against – again – mommy dearest’s deathly and over-enthused hands… which will be, once more, swollen to the tossing bones of a livid breathing breathless throat

Which will inevitably both invitingly have to (Shall!!) duly do its dirty damned damndest – as her riotously romanticising eyes set themselves upon vilified electrification again. Hardly ever gently gentrified anymore really, UP until that

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Pill makes singularly incorrect sense of itself (again)

And Daddy=deathly ran the sweat-arisen palms of his secretively suggestive hands

Detrimentally against … her slaughtered and decidedly deceptive both remote-controlling cancellation.

Which whispers it sweetly: “Daddy, dearest.. you (went and) slept with (the fate of) my favourite best childhood again!”