in feral fretters fear held twas I

In feral Fretters Fear Held twas I
the old stuff was from untrustworthy cohorts
drinking the sauce of poisonings and thinking it was 'deluxury' morosely being our own lynchpin of unhealing a decade of decay folowed and blacked the clouds of our mindscape, cavern assuredly. we drank in darkness, 'most like early gays but straight as we was, the healing was no feeding. we were booted out of sordid assorted sundry sundae bars,relentlsly complainering and grumbling "Just for yelling out: Let's all get drunk and dance dirty?" poelple thought of me as a tautology: utter bum boar.
on the avenue of abuse, where the parochial beaters dressed in perpetual mourning, the sole release was matriculation. plus there were always the Evangeline and stories of El Cid v. the moors. And still my soul marched ploddingly, well unfed. Someone in awe told me: You're missing on first contact, tis with soul to self recirculates. someone told me my art truly sucked and so I beliefed him, right as he might have dustbin. I couldn't see how the rest of them couldn't understand, when I went back to 'carry the word', how much sobriety rocked over drunken notoriety, but they didn't amidst the din of the crashing glasses, the broken faux paws, and the blim blim blim of the daquiri blinder.Plus they really 'dug' the linedancing and the tragic sense of existence somehow truly grooved their corpus delectum