My furtive strawberry fetching girl is a comely emollient burgundy plum.
In the golden seed of helios the syrup spoon of her little smiles furnish arcadian woefulness rind, gayety and abundant honey lemonade. My girl with pink champagne to the brim of her opaque elation make my leisure eve hours seem like a week in riviera paradise. My girl with bee barettes in her mushy poison red hair soon will make the amaryllis on the lawn fade into grey and white wisp to the northeast mountains of the US; where a dialled call to the American dream died on the line of her phone. My girl is a freedom lady in a comic poster plastered, raw, stuck on the cabotine scene, deployed for the police, the men in stars and stipes, the president in white red and blue who will order you like saffron and caviar with dirty whore money on classy beaneries. Yes my girl is an utility. A practice. A method. A mayhem you released touching the first fruit of her pandemonium. A mutiny from the sexual nonconsensual salute you took from 'it'.
A quiet charlie. A pretty moron. A girl with no morals to mourn.
My defective tiny pie give you a piece of her mind every time you take a bite off the yearling meat. My girl is lacerated on their paragons and standards of feminine beauty, marred by her husband fucked by her father. The setting is bucolic so is my maid giving love taking males with their hate giving them scintillas of panoplies dropping petals in their laps, evanescent babies on their wives steadfast yellow tiles.