portugal. the man
kill me. the king
Basking briefly in this overeating indulgence of insides  But I fear he's lower than before  Though he's stronger than he looks  He's made of feathers mixed with oil and small servings  Of hands and feet   Up so high  How do they flutter so damn high?  Now begin the search that hails you home  I think I lost my means He said with his face in the cup  Desperate times make for desperate people