Recordings made when no
one's there, that's what we like.

Too many scraps full of pockets.
We agree, but clause. Always.

A punk rock lunch on sidewalk,
stakesters plummeting from

condimental tips. I'm implying
for jobs by writing you, despite

your sounding Beatles-chafed
echoes of phone aroma carolina

gold. We like it when I writes, not
when we make type. Wondering

where John calls home for brief
bio scrubs on the, the web. "In a bow,

dad." Right. I knew that cadence
picked me up somewhere. It, like

McDonald's, is coming off. Service
interruptions, we like those triple 

bonus mattress sales a lot. Bonus
is a filthy excuse for a word, words.

That's why we torched Jared. It's not
enough to know what things mean

beaten off to the side, fool. Sometimes
you gotta know what things don't mean.