Milk Of Words

Unnatural number of digits, the satanic sixth finger points at me, straight to the gallows, please: no pleasantries, this is no shower, a rather gruesome affair, not your cup of tea. His poor mater was hexed in her travails ooooh by a lemur's femur, raised amongst the thorns of the rose nursery, homme elephant tinkling the ivories.

Words awash with the sweat of knitted brow and sweat oh it cannot was a flood of knitted words. WordsSweatBrow. Milk of words and tongues distilled from all speech and all poems.

Unnatural number of digits, if you catch the devil in your pantry, hidden in the hollows, God knows I've been known to preach in words of measured speech, gone are the days thinking I speak with authority. So I'm told: I make a mess of a hand shake, and I address envelopes with just the occasional mistake, and a grip grows old but that's just the ways it goes, these hands can still coax puppets from the shadows, and here's the church and here's the steeple, look inside, look inside: here's the people. WordsSweatBrow.

– Safetyword