It was a story of mischief. There was a cold night of silence, nothing stirring but a symphony of clowns. The streets glimmer from the moon in a cascade of puddled earth. It was she that was standing there; standing still once again.
Hop like a misfit Hot like a Triscuit Do you want to make it? Or do you want to mix it? Do you want to hear the calls of the mischief? Keep it on pause, And I’ll keep it raw
I’d walk through the valley to fix it Keep it on simmer The heat will make fish sticks Don’t keep so quick with your lips, kid This rain moves booties and biscuits.
