Before I taste death,
pour heap blood on the sofa.
Snap this day once again.
Hilarious whistle selling a ‘’fii’’ sound
behind my window.
Threshing a sleepfull eye.
This is the fourth dream in one dream.
Fluttered storm belch on my shoulder.
A honey hunter hunts yonder.
Flurried harvested feathers shove the forest
with raspy sounds that stormed my sofa,
by the sands of the debt of doves.
Do not rap. This is refuge
By the right, this is lively to spiritism.
Lionize you, I. Do not rap,
or I shall call the sward-lad
then penetrate he, your braveness.
He shall pluck your soul
with lithe tempest.
Smell the honey oddly,
smell the drying honey.
My sleep is gone deep, and pumping
but before I join the ancestral snort
come in and clean my sofa.