Tsk Lady - Posie Rider

Tsk lady, I can't better this lattice of congealed parchment; chip fat in knee creases. Infitisimal webs of smatteried moisturising. If I'm not back with the crocuses dying, batter the door down and sweep up the tallow, a small favour to remove this taste from my sheets. A favour to be the man, the hairs on the pillow, ecstatic mysteries and corking my betterment. Make it a patchwork, and cum in my letterbox. I will wash for them and, when the poets are better, crack the pan with my oil that is too hot. And a various morning, ketchup in pasta and insisting we do not experience our moods alike all at the same time.