I flap my lap into the living room trap to clap and sing with the rhythm sap of a radio map.
I sing along bringing a ringtone clone while dancing alone as a floor drug drone.
The music and the "could" is just right to be understood in the hood of my "beach house" wood.
I handle the hike under the like of the neighborhood sike. They all seem to "fight" to smear their lip clip ear near to the dear with the musical tear.
I moved around the ground of the clear chandelier crown to hear the jeer of the bay window queer.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
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