Where a lark is singing in, haven't you see the sky, Trollkarl. Or, a lark is singing, don't you hear any attention, do you, Trollkarl.
On the last train, creaking a strap holding on to, the wave motion gun is discharged.
On brushing my teeth, a kesalan patharan, Japanese angel hair, into tepid water.
A gag in her mouth, to make a mock of her by words only, haiku is suitable for may be.
At the hill, the neck of him be crucifieddie on the cross, like a hinge.