He’s been caught talking to God again – silver-lining penitentiary

Drinking for his sins, watering down his near-misses whilst the other person does a dutiful disservice to their day
Malcontent, -nourished and barb-wired existences – when she leans and whispers against his lessening ear to finally suppose to propose a thing of utter beauty midst delirium and sweet, sweet chaos

To clasp her hiding hand and to endlessly cradle her left breast
By way of complete adultery she’s the chosen one with fear whistled near her wailing heartstrings

Her choices have been rolling over in their grave, yet her libido has been anointing him the soul-bearer

Typified beneficiary

He will roll over with her gain-less gain Time again – Does terrifically strange things to estranged strangers

And a seventeenth one-night-stand stands mysteriously erect out of a hidden craving for pompous portrayal

All of this whilst McCartney sings “we can work it out” over the airwaves of one lonely Chelsea Hotel radio, when, really, they know that they shan’t

“We’ve been fussing and fighting my friend, yet this love for lust just cannot dance…”
Destruction by way of curvature of the elongated hip – stripped of all of our demons in disguise

Here we still sit deliriously dilapidated and desirably misshapen – ladies aside sweat-arisen mental-men, this appears to be the perfectly poised portrait of sweet, sweet evil

Plagiarised betrayal and one day they will release the truth of their hidden ways
Midst their shallow alabaster graves

Eleanor Rigby’s disappearance has been a thing of utter promiscuity