Sitting all alone, looking at the throne of the one I used to love
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Sitting all alone, looking at the stone of my lovely inca love
The huntress stands, with peacock hands she'd take me to where she lie
She sighs so deep, it rocks the river of her stomach sky
The oval moon, it tans the faun who holds grapes for my love
Sitting all alone, sitting in the throne of my lovely inca love
Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes consuming the silent midnight woods. He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart of a marigold and let his molish imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and pirate pictures of rusted doubloons and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty muskets and goldfish gauntlets, once worn by Henry Morgan.
The lark awoke and doffed its plumed three cornered hat to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past the crested nest of the snoring cuckoo, and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for friend Mole. Mole was on a marigold come down and sulkily scraped bluebeat rhythms with his
"Yes," he whispered, "Me and Li are going a-questing for the Lily Pond of Fox Necks. Li'll know all the mapping gen"
So the Mole, kneeling on the soft soil, said a morning prayer to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert trousers because his molish mind knew that praying was special...
I come from a time where the burning of trees was a crime
I lived by a sea where to be was a thing of true joy
My people were fair and had sky in their hair
But now they're content to wear stars on their brows.
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