Trink Keye

I’m na to deny the fact, if it gives me reason,
Idiot may be ill man, find him in his den in the garden

Bush-wacker, wicca furniture
Sitton branche, settee france, pier chair,
Dear friend, letters to the stairs

Levels are mares
Levers are males

Each stair, musical scale

Find us in ponder, beside ducks with bread that’s stale
I’m not to decide the talk that I may be going ‘off the rails’
And ‘on charge’, ‘oompa glassier’
Glaze acceptance into denial, a play is ace
With placement play, mental state style
Consider its simplution

We can’t deny what will happen
We will try and give reason,
Give fault, fees for knowlequates
Roll eyes before a crawl towards ‘pupils di(e-)alates’