Gates here in twenty years,
find in the sand a trail barefoot.
He will set up a watchdog barking the whole pier
not admit, he was glad, and that the wild.
want, Throw off the sweaty stuff;
but the maid is dead identify your scar.
A One, that you, they say, I waited,
nowhere to be found, For all he gave.
Your kid has grown up; he himself sailor,
and looking at you, exactly you - garbage.
And the tongue, where around yelling,
disassemble, seem to be, wasted effort.
Either the island is not the, whether indeed, bay
blue pupil, your eye has become squeamish:
on a piece of land horizon wave
will not forget, see, nabegaya of.