A bass string, howling, in sorrow you’ll become, in greasy sweat.
Going on a trip, left it empty, a feeding bottle is there.
Meeting with three wise monkeys, at an unwillingly park, we have a good chance. Or, Meeting with three wise monkeys, and to join No-No monkey, is there five?
To cut the wind, as a bookmark my knife is, on the last chapter.
On my knees, a woman crying, volume of her behind.