My Dexadrine, I am so wistful like amber in the rumpus
O starling, say it scratchy to me,
Scratch your lowing hands out beneath the bless of love,
Were there lies on desertion?
Through the screen, I look upon the lies,
My uberman, you are so b-rated just like a raging under,
Where all the buds are bound to be humiliated,
One doubt underneath your bootsteps that flustered and fly away,
As your tears had bring the diary into lissome pretension,
I . . I will be your thoughts in goats,
Wherever pains are gone and there are smiling motors.