Cement all is not
but man and a natural world
comfort, so roundly atomized, spend
my wad — a sweet earning —
2 soft, UR, my old horse.
Back there the sun is shining; why
don't we return. Let no man
put us under bastion or bridge;
aren't the altitudes articulate?
Precision cannot account.
Little parts of the body
we care about are in the service
of lambs. In the last 48 weeks
I have been an average geometer
lazing through poorly put
industrial centers. Now the twelve
are the ten thousand
and inordinate speakers
proclaim our cathected achievement.