But I must confess that
At the bottom of the crater
They run no chance of sin;
Freeing the world carries signs
He sounded disappointed after us,
Little men have difficulties,
Little fingers wrap around little men,
Who dine on your brain and shells
Here was the town hall,
Looking down into the street
Of stars and warlike stories,
Filled libraries, and ponds of life
But people bored him in abstinence,
Never did quakes be jolly,
Not in the slightest, not in the slightest.
My improvement stems from too much lager,
In these grounds and fields and rural area,
A dark, unlighted estate remains shadowy
Under the moonless sky of the night.
It surprises us as it is dingy, pitch-black,
I am about to create a feeling of strong angles,
With my fork and my spoons and knives the thought
Makes itself told to the other party, and they are numerous,
For to uncork the bottle is to say something dark,
My talents are as gloomy as the dark grounds,
To be a leek is to be like the grounds of saying,
But vegetables separately speak, and I know
More than you about eating and its manners.
I see stars in the new ground called the night,
Yawn offering amazement as the sky falls!
Lids of the eyes retry their seat and soil,
Forming illegality from the royalty of theirs.
I see the words that importantly convey the disguise,
I man these thoughts then in collision, for I die now.
Returning to the guests is my condition and performance;
Since the days I have won, my victory is sealed.