Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
We love the knives that cut the limbs from our body. Love the cold hand of a slap in the face, aces high, nothing wild, pair of twos five seven ten, all different suits, might as well fold but we stay in the game play with our teeth lose all our money get drunk find new ways to make ante. I've got no arms or legs; I'm a fool for romance, deal me in.
Page generated by the dadaPHP system.0.0064 sec.