While listening to pre-beat Jazz. Damn, the rain still will not fall as-- we never said "should it?" to their blue sky. In the land of one season. There is hardly a reason. You can keep what you think must be my pie. Because, the pies are for their parades. Where their petals shall surely cascade. To dry up, just as when they were first ridden. Can't you tell that March from this June? As you hand fill all of your "to soons". For children that will never be taller for thinking. But it is not in their height. Or what we claim "out of sight". Because, there's nothing left, but to raise sheep-- while conforming. I know that you'll build the best bud float. Like your hand-crafted Lebonese sail-boat. Though before you, there was no one that found-- the Grail's edge. So as I claim this world that God damn flat. And I, your sure footed front door mat. Did you know that next door there's an old man growing sore, that'll fix your shoe's sole-- but not the tongue for a nickel?