How delicate the tracery of her finelines. Like the moonlight lacetops of the evening pines. Like a song half heard through a closed door. Like an old book when you cannot read the writing
words. (16 lines, lines, lines. ). (Of blow and I'm fine). ♪. (You're wastin' your time, wastin' your time). (Please don't cry). 16 lines of blow and I'm fine. Break my bones, but act as my spine
