Summer Cotton Easter Red Poem by chris bowen

villianous pen.the setter ire, the more words to say come complete.the little land is damned and floating.i dont want to rock to a beat without knowing.cast confusion to the wind, it comes back again.the sound of its voice haunts me at night, and i go fire marshall red and tucker.give me the book.soda fountains are high and longevity is pricey.the book is registered to a thought.anna kournikova, come over.but theres no chance of that.i only wonder if shes used up.can i say used up? like shes been with too many men or is that politically incorrect? i see the light for what it is and its poison.the vain are attempting to line up, they cast doubt on shadows and see the point of arrows, skipping words.deserves heard me, epic go long, strong, for only the fearful divide, and can i ride by sundown? this territory, got to go, float then sink, amelia island, the pink is potential exploding all around your head.