On a forked road, carrying you on my back and following, your armpit at last.
Born in Tosa she was, to look up and hold her tight, a rokurokubi because of.
For standing on tiptoe, of a freeze-dried tofu, how feel your feet on.
With tan lines like strings, on around her navel, heavily to pour soy sauce.
To banish a sinner, by stones thrown, at the edge of the bridge.