The smoke who rises from your glass is trickery. The inno- of the hana
closed my throat hole shut.
I'd explain, but my breath is caught
I may deny but my scents has stopped
Good sense, bad sense, make sense, i cannot
Please let us not
Picky, piney, prosy pony
Yes, please, let's not.
My atmosphere is everywhere, except the little hole where the smoke will always go.
This place is still the darkest room, but my arms are never lost
Just polite, that's right, in spite
After all, are they not mine?
No, they are not.
Only snakes in charm, in time
All the consequence of chime
Poets warn the haze of blaze, and legend keeps the heedence tame
And there's a light behind the cave of the largest, darkest room.
You have no idea, You have no idea, you have no idea,
no idea, idea
Of everything you and Ikea
Have made of the Snake.
Kill Bill.
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