Patriarch

Hey you the mother of my little one! My hookah needs to sputter in hydra. My mustache needs to be twirled up.

It was all so easy to blow every mind. My acids be alkalized neural network, my mind has neurons fired dorsally. I am bilious acids rising to the mind.

Hey you the mother of my little one, please do not be difficult of gender.My pictures on walls shall move easy and in theaters over cigarette smoke .The shadow play is not that difficult.

We blow our minds on easy religion.But it is difficult to keep going in desert.Dust storms are blinding a horizon.