My stomach
Tens were played
Tiny folds of skin
It's my own fault
And this
folding blood
I want fries
And meat
With a bun
Soft and sweet
I don't like bread made out of curly flowers Flowers
Fast
food
widow is who I am
Can't do anything
I'm going
for some class
Dust
and tail Make it nerve
Exercise and stuff It's my own fault
And this folding
blood I want to smoke
And soar
Lay down
on the floor
I don't like running three times a week in an hour
An hour I want to smoke
And soar
Lay down
on the floor
I don't like running three times a week in an hour
Đang Cập Nhật
