dirty
Dear God, qu'est-ce que c'est? We talked in private box pews of "Justice." the tongue in which Adam wooed Eve. No one hearing. No one noticing, one more kid hiding one less shade expressing itself, like a colour, falling off the colour wheel. Lord, I'm sure you're right but they dance in the street crashing their necks out the cigarette box Dear God, I'm sorry, but I need to consider myself one more survivor of the massacre before I'm dead.