I have a false belief of the thief surrounding me in the alley tree. I tossed a cartoon, harpoon gloss to curtail the male with the lottery tell holding the nail to hammer the god forsaken trail.
Money is the tool that rules the pool of forgotten cool fool.
Where he hangs the pain of his game, he also sees the train of selfish blame.
His bark is so dark, there's nowhere to tear a desperate park of a traffic harp.
The branch of his mobile home patch is nothing more than chocolate poodle scratch.
He dreams of smurfs dancing around on his turf to score a battle curf for the chosen few.
A shallow grass nerf to tend to his fur.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
©quaker
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