there’s a stirring in the wrinkled prunes
not pitted yet, they engender,
in sleepy spring nights,
a furnace of fuel for that Rocket Man
that Pied Piper Pilot
always known as Randy.
XXX

there’s a stirring in the wrinkled prunes
not pitted yet, they engender,
in sleepy spring nights,
a furnace of fuel for that Rocket Man
that Pied Piper Pilot
always known as Randy.
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