To provoke a river, a river of psychosis,
Is to madden the puberty of religion;
I braise a brick of meat with oil to sew
The rivers of juice into the morsel.
To grip is to be busy with seconds I love,
Rivers of love ask us in displeasure.
A psychopath has realms of imagination,
From the rivers of impurity and hate.
Let me outwit the conversationalist,
Who staggers at my speech of psychotic words.
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