Approaching the age of checking fingers for stopgaps - those things'll stop chats.
I'll "..." dash.
'Cause a berth in the oven's only pregnant with meaning if you weren't, but that's worth careening to Schubert 'cause I've downed fewer fifths than Eighth Symphony. (We're both three-eighths empty.) Please don't bleed sympathy, my sin needs no empathy.
Dah dah dah dum.
Eventually, I'll begin to sleep without compunction, and after a while, I'll be bile deep in erectile dysfunction...
So This is the age I will miss, and I wish it wouldn't end, but until then I'll keep on kissing any lips.
Sisyphean feet. Running nowhere on repeat. V for vignette I'd better not let be complete.