Birthday: Iteration Two.

VIII.

The smile of me whom, by the way,
happiness leaves it, and I who am

a point intense moe which is so this which is
a thing of intense moe which is so

happiness will have of intense moe which
liquor in one mug seems to embrace each other,

and can sit on you did you to a cake, but
you, liquor, you who dislike that I am bought

eventually, and bake instead. Breathe it
so that chillax can do my poetry

on the birthday when your apartment
and Cruise are happy; however, chase it,

and who gives a fuck?

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