Iron-Tipped

A pile of worn-out scrap metal plunged into the sky Wrinkled his forehead, furious and a little bit red The sun that sustains it will gradually recede Witnessing the dull blue beauty—wrecked Disorientation, axle, coupling and accessories attached to it regarding the black dagger His mustache is no longer scary but looks peaceful I'm like a thin kris—drain Because I can't find a unanimous determination—desperate Ah it's just an illusion for a tie car Without a pile of iron that is recycled, smelted and smelted, it would not be possible for all of this to exist Oplet, helicak, tram are good enough to regenerate A cloud of sweat still doesn't make the body chaotic And don't forget the rickshaw, the ontel bicycle is a witness to the times that are said to be thugs The plagiarism tire has droopy lips because of the dictator's pretentiousness on the motor orator I'm like a nipple that is flicked by a naughty coquettish girl Well then, how about a two-faced television, a deaf cell phone and a sliver computer? All of them except bullets, munitions, missiles, grenades, atomic bombs are iron tips