The Talents that write.

Talent doesn't dripgrip my fingers

because in(see)cure is a double-edged eeek.

Thrust and a nice bust of talent as he paints the green-

ever so clean- lips of the devil.

All for d' évolutionnaire which kills, distils (cut the thrills)

of the meek.


Never- the less, will become my gilded glib(less to impress)

goat- diced. That tasted nice. For that was my evolution, the brains like the

ancients (because really, we'll all go down in history) were preserved

and much deserved till they grew flew into the modern me.


So that's why you see- I'll let you out and fill your mouth with

a deep dark secret.


Genius-me-you if your lucky, are all derived through expunging and then sponging

the grains of others.