The way the weather switched, you could tell something was kind of off, but they insisted that people once walked around with dinosaurs and told you your science was wrong, told you to die for the lord, told you to live by the sword, and watched as you died in their wars. Now that's a promise land fashion statement, but I don't find the colorways of blood and oil all that fascinating. They made a rule against imagination so I graduated with a bachelor's degree in intellectual masturbation; now that's what I call knowledge of self. When the rock fell it crushed Piggy as well as the conch shell, and when lil' homie pulled the switchblade and he was only in sixth grade -- don't tell me that shit's strange as if it was only a kid's game. The old mill, the road, the sunrise, the highway. The fisherman's dream at the bottom of Twin Lakes. The fictitious theme that is rotting in hell. It ain't hard to tell this isn't for sale; it's a lost tale.
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