The swamp in red, shrouded in the mist, it's a perfect day for a crocodile.
Looking behind to, by his antlers of the demon, aeolian noises I hear.
About this time last year, with their father of twins, the summer I had spent. Or, about this time last year, with their bazooms of twins, the summer I had spent.
Three days have already past, in the wind say with no mercy, red spider lilies.
Before crashing, a dwarf held, the control stick of.