probably some mines left. since this used to be a minefield.
because they found the gold vein,
ready to inject.
i'm living in promised land,
at least thats
what they keep tell me.
where we hail the
Black hole Banner.
All flags look the same.
Screaming eyes look wide.
its dangerous to see
with the whole eye.
at once, since light is poison.
at least thats
what they keep tell me.
Totenkopf SS World neighbour
U.S.A U.S.S.R..
Made in Iraq.
Caught sneaking in Hitlers cellar.
Shallow righthearted freedom, The Pink Fuhrer
demand her fairies picked clean before boiling point sharp edge
iron feast.
Supremacist Bunnies, roam the streets at night of downers stone.
The Town on the bow of moon, sliced with lemon.
Salute the gun for food, poetic remarks on sarcasm.
gave a odour.
from palm deep holes they came,
by the divine net of jealousy
the nuclear shield, god weared protection
making babies, with jihadist jesus.
The Smell of booze resembeles a Atmosphere.
In A Mirrorworld of your own identity.
Poetry by asshole
Read 832 times
Written on 2008-09-24 at 20:00
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Blackhole banner
discarding slices of silver,because they found the gold vein,
ready to inject.
i'm living in promised land,
at least thats
what they keep tell me.
where we hail the
Black hole Banner.
All flags look the same.
Screaming eyes look wide.
its dangerous to see
with the whole eye.
at once, since light is poison.
at least thats
what they keep tell me.
Totenkopf SS World neighbour
U.S.A U.S.S.R..
Made in Iraq.
Caught sneaking in Hitlers cellar.
Shallow righthearted freedom, The Pink Fuhrer
demand her fairies picked clean before boiling point sharp edge
iron feast.
Supremacist Bunnies, roam the streets at night of downers stone.
The Town on the bow of moon, sliced with lemon.
Salute the gun for food, poetic remarks on sarcasm.
gave a odour.
from palm deep holes they came,
by the divine net of jealousy
the nuclear shield, god weared protection
making babies, with jihadist jesus.
The Smell of booze resembeles a Atmosphere.
In A Mirrorworld of your own identity.
Poetry by asshole
Read 832 times
Written on 2008-09-24 at 20:00
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
