Along the tree line shake spirts of a future time. In the chill they pop pills and swallow wine. Bright fur stuck to thorny vines. Puppets pop in a veil of smoke, take a deep breath, but lose it to choke. Grow a bonus finger in your sleep. Bells curdle out quaverng tones, wise Men like seasoned bones. Traid of dry dads with dreads shred the hammock we weep on. The omnibus of pus, the pickled fuck-stain. Fun nation under cogs. The brew of all of you. Lets go to the scrotum pole chalk about our lies.