A rebel without a clue.

Today, what of it, that is left I brought you rocket, olives and bruschetta bread For me the stage was set for resting amongst the noises feeding my head Right amongst the section of architects stones stood such spitting scholar Closed eyelids and puffy face while waiting to face heavens appeasement The craft of which you speak hasn't levened cleavers leaving me dead and hollow. My pedimental marble is cold and unfeeling framed against a rattling voice. Fucking further than I forsaw from the distance of 5pm and 8pm.

S now melted leaving damp muddy Slipping steps caked shoes and wet toes Greasy and rotten brown ridged tracks Where all clothing must be ground. Old lady misses the bus And shits herself in the rush Trousers poo splattered And we sped on road. Fear of loving Live to not love Life free of loved Clove of lovers. All this rotten Brown coffee grown Trodden these feet Mud cracking soled. Soul is not hear Just impressed their Rubbered plastic Lipid feet trudge.