Reel in the colored trailors
that jar and shine the lights of my mind, and in them
find, the fine wines, where we dine
where we'll plot our points of trouble.
Don't trace your stationary hand on my neck
on my back, on my sides, but sell your mark, cause I must
feel that I'm this real
I'm more real than you
And enclosed is this print, that
Circumstance has drowned me
drawn in deep blue,
what weathered conditions we've seen
they've sorted nothing less true
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