You're taking shots like its classy to fall on the floor. And copper tabletops don't mean nothing no more. Piles of post-its, like a neon autumn, bring money and spring sings, he's just where we want him...
I put my hair up and make my own lunch while you age. Your last years model and he's a discount shopper. Match made in, only your mother would print that...
My smile just seems to get wider and wider.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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