Formore, morid, lan hol
For now error on the attempt of the first evening which bares the long id.
When they, the Folvos said,
And it's fair
Yet who runs the docket?
Who dreams the til?
A color rouse, color tree,
On to me the killer bee was decided in his rile.
Said, You don't throw your soul away on what some other men trade for everything,
Some other soul trade for Destiny!
Like she was up to thangs.
Some younger Pilot called it pace!