Naturally my neat handwriting
Carries me further than the rest.
The caressed mothers dress to obviously
Believe in criminals and malefactors.
In their breasts is a detested one soul.
In the cities of nectar there digests
Feeling upon feeling, of emotional reactions.
The blessings of the chest from others
Is like the forced turning of the pages of a book
Or any volume you care to consider.
We have conversations too polite
And true to reality, yes sir!
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