The rumors are true; our rogue torch kissed the sky 'n whispered adieu with its scarlet flame sigh. Tuesdays spent with sibyl foretold that even tigers will purr; a killers sly smile appears subtle eclipsing the wicked saboteur. A rejected opaline rose choked wilting on a citrus veranda; I watched it die and smoked as petals veiled the sycamore floor. We've been rollin down groove street smokin on victory 'n o.d.ing on fresh injections of complacency and bitter vinegar defeat. Sunday suns blaze humid on this dirt road of loathing that I travel upon, intrepid- murderous red lips cursing; drinking black ambrosia groovin to the blue-collar blues 'n rollin sublime nimbus spliffs. Night tigers softly purr as we growl in victory; the wicked saboteurs grinning in sweet revery of our preys vinegar defeat. Fangs kiss bloody flesh 'n whisper sweet adieu with my fervid devil sigh; the last kiss before you die.