Word Salsa #3

Her body drops As she carelessly killed on every bill
I act like me I was in a critic
The scene inside her flame of Landa’s place, & waited for me she had a blue sky
Yes, this or waving of rock, piPe and my eyes and painted yellow & gone, &, smiling, went away
That’s dill-pickle-flavored, too much as our fists of San Antonio


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