The schooner rubs with Trieux, in anchorage.
Some Ordinary People are the crew of it.
The raw mackerel, cooked with lemon - light taste -
Is so volatile like low fat ices creams.
Also the audience hoists tardily.
In the twilight
At the maintop
And they are stuck, in one movement,
With the first fried notes from Sunny.
Relating his crossing, to give the dizzy
To the noisy wind, running away the Neil Young treasure.
This evening, our heart at the flag, pitches
Black ocean
Glory to the song
Under the attractive rolling of goldfingers. Tramp,
When are the cabarets and hysteria at your feet ?
The grey and hard hair, an eye on the freshness.
The other one becomes ash in chewer-paradise.
Witnesses Marlon Brando Ray Charles about Night
To their memory
At the coffe shop
They catched up the bed of Pocahontas. Night.
The alcoholic blue harmonica is the friend to the sailor,
To the cherub trapper, it can sensitize
Our blue-night heart which is brewing up when lie down
Children neutralized by the dragee which harms.
Filoutery
Mutiny
JPL, in turn, convinces the idle.
With some very simulated strings and with a
thoughtful mind.
The anxiety, of the last summer, is in the past.
On the
burning complaint of a wormeaten love,
To strike the haven of peace is the
profound desire
Ah the demob
Ah girls
At the edge of a river, but
the typhoon occurred
With powdery reeks and electrified finger
And if a
day, the foghorn can be heard
Stars catch cold but your arms parfume
The
love without awaiting the catastrophe thank you.
No story
No thanks
Sylvaine airs a few stale pieces
With the great flights of most
romantic
Like the aspiration, plastic image
And quite pathetic for flutter
both
For flee from a cold screen towards the warm eye
You’re my
beloved
My liqueur of love
Let us prefer the listening to the noise of the
road
The big stone in the sky gurgles to the lovers
Our more beautiful
thoughts to be stuck on our walls
Which will crack, such a slim
thighbone,
Under the incredible weight of ordinary days
All
minutes
Are shaggy
Making the rough hair to the imagination.
Stretched on the deck that a ship’s
boy polishes
Our Crosby leaves his fledgeling mountain
Scratches twelve
strings on some samples
Of Come's A Time - to live the conscience
Each
tick-tock
Comes at random
Of our particles of pale obedience
That only
a lot of love gets moving again,
And the heart wakes up in joy to warm up
the part which one seems to you also ridiculous
Gets up us a moment of
the feedeing trough
Would be toothpick
Would be president
Of the time -
ah the villain - I use to believe it
And the child also if he ripens in a good fruit.
And on the littoral, a shark
is charmed
By a sea-bream which crunches a cookie.
Abstractedly, she
dreams about a rebuilt place
The nightmare
Is squid
With thick the
tentacles as an umbilical bond.
Constant threat - surgical hook -
Such a
salted pint that the five creams push away
Racing to the wake, which a roll
skims,
To the caravel of Cortez the rapist.
Sea Strips
Latitudes
To
lost Vietnam, where Kevin loses color,
proud of his world first, he rejoins
Jimi at the port.
And without a warning, some leaks comes by scuttles.
No
hairy leg of cyclist on board,
However there are some breakers of unhappy
chords.
Neil with the false note
Out of the hammock
The strings rusted,
thirty, it is enormous
With the four winds, they throw them to the
standards.
The present lull rocks us, grows us
To reap the exquisite one, by the return - of course
Electrified - so dear,
breaking this husky blood
Nothing is making us itch
To us who are
pirates
Turning red into white, galleon into phantom
Here, we are landing,
we’re thanking Betty
And also all sailors, our bellyful of meals.
The naive
inshore navigation for the kitchen boy.
The next boarding will have great
rigging.
BETWEEN The Rusty Words
December 03, 2004
© IDDN 2005
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