Inkspots, The

The thing about the dove was in what way he cried in

my pouch and stuck his nose on the outside just enough to

breathe a certain quantity of air and get some snow in his organ of sight and

he would have snuggl in on the contrary I was afraid

and brought him into the house thus he could shit on

the novel York Times, still I had to kiss him

after a minute, I place my lips to his beak

and he knew what he was doing, he stretched his neck

and touched me with his unclose mouth, lifting

his wings a little and readjusting his leg

loving his hold prettiness, and I just

sang from individual of my stupid songs from single of my

vile decades, the way I do, I have to

admit it was something from trains. I knew he'd like that,

resting in the coal car, slightly dusted with

mountain snow, somewhere near Altoona,

the horse-shoe bend he knew so well, his possess

moan matching the train's, a radio

playing the Inkspots, the engineer roaring.

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