These precious smokes, to choke all of it right the entire way out, to attempt to amount to anything
Because something Just Is Not Happening
These sugar-coated doctors, they’ve been remarkably, continuously so tracking his ungodly progress, none of which tends to have turned its attention to being in any way impressive
Push, shove, seems the shy glove is back upon the rather agonising hand
Where these prickly sands of time, not to mention mind-boggling rhyme, no longer permit him to breathe, neglect to chime
All of it quite ironic, really
Reeling ten thousand ways to Sunday
Where is all the fun they speak oh so affably of gone, sprinting so far from touch on all kinds of a whim, perhaps?
Stripped of his utter ability to tee it on up, usurp a rather important part of his seriously flailed and stricken against his will past
An altogether ineptly instigated cognitive blast and he is right back to where he started from
Seems even the strongest can fail to survive somehow

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