Saturday, December 13, 2008

Fiscal Graffiti

I'm down babelets
Drop down my layer
The streak of me
Mama, allow me
I'm made of, like, a gravy
See my goods slow out your door
Ain't I strange, I'm dead
Dou see my garlic mom
I ate my stages; I mimic lady Moor
Hold on your night shirt
My own banana I'm going to shake on down
I'm your nightshade
Mama in your morning gown
Well, you know my Dada
Should have made him come down
Shake it/steak it
You met with my seal of night
With a curtain morn taped me to slight
I'm playdoh through the night
Mama, bleed--take me on a flight
I tried a beaver-yolk custard pie
I killed a beaver
Your custard, Mike, dropped down
Draw up/down
I drew a beaver