Cotton On Wood Poem by chris bowen

withered men do send damned reports.give an escort to the short fire, along the mire, villiger, kill the higher.the rich wanna bich, a proper temr for generous.the learned are some what enlightened.the price to buy a head of a bearded man hanging from a string is too high, the man was vaunted and if i get a nichol i play out.i dont want to doubt the scene, but the crazy dream is love, and the soft red cotton between us is ok to catch, come, and live some, reports.