pseudoartist

A bump in the cloudy night, in the darkness of the full Moon's light,
mid-flight emergency dump of all things that aren't quite enough light.

The heavy boxes never thought outside of, the dense loops never deviated from.
Tons of feathers and the whole lot of rum.

"Wave the anchor!" sounds the pirates' voice. They had no particular point of choice. As a matter of fact, their chatter had a fictious tact,
granting ability to say this and that without having to wear the silly hat.

Into the storms aye we go, some bodies have to deliver the present, ho ho ho!

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