One never can tell, when they fall into the pit of hell, a mere matter of stress with a combination of duress, a loss of feeling alive, I pray it’s not contrive, not a position of restful strive, a bee without a hive.
Wonderful colour of Tulips, Golden bells galore, Bluebells of plenty, Amethyst are small. Pretty rabbits are out of bed, crocoideae Iris, whisper to Hyacinth, she may not tell, incredible to smell.
Now where was I in story part or told, lost in thoughts, a transitional movement of the strangest kind, cannot travel beyond what I can see leading forward into the darkest caverns, being lead by the blind, don’t worry my dear, I’m very close behind.
Roses of red, inconceivable to believe that they have grown up on gruel, Oliver the boy, matchstick girl, would make a great pair, Shoreditch church rings the bell, the children desired love and food, wonderful stories in the Dickensian world, I slept soundly in a comfy little shell, pray before sleep
For fear of hell!.
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