Zach Lencioni Birds in the Bush I tripped and lagged but deciphered a song amidst a cup of wheat. Oh trees and I never wear. Trees and girdles. We go traveling and oh but the trees and we the gorgons groan. The milk the cows the clay the kiln the hands the sun the ground that leaves the leavened bread burnt. And it curdles when it falls into disuse. Truth is misused if it's any good. Cranberries and helplessness. Families and bracing. Notches, naturally. We may indeed feel that we may indeed eat meals but we do not think you should be assured of the safety of the heel. The lash and assorted other goodies. My sore spot for poxes. The clocks all doffed their hats to the lurking germs. Good old whales turn their moustaches to Antietam. Cancel your nurseries, we're done for. Trill your case and we'll consider it again at a later date. Not so much. It's only justice. Cornfed, drooling and twirling. I trounce you. Partly and hardly. Curled and falled for. All larks will look this way. Why would I want to wretch for fallow fields. Genuflected flecks of marsh streams on partly shifted teeth. Caps of fees and fees and fees and though you feel as though you will, you'll fail. Finagling and farmhouses plus a hundred wars to write a song.