Mouths Orange Sunny

The pier is struck by a lonely wave. Out across the field comes more rain. Only the heads of the fish break the surface. Pink are their mouths orange sunny hang open. The salt water rains down, and it only makes them gulp more. The eyes all look fresh, and speaking of which are they pretty? A woman waist deep in grey foam. Then the wind raises the splendid evening dress. As for the representative of her treasury. The tee back breaches the contract. The I.R.S. escapes paying more taxes. None here any more can we play. It all passes through the sewer of town anyway. Sell the Golden temple. Which by you is sent in order to deeply sleep. One mile in and two miles out the green damp moss, hangs with the silence and it grows none to fast.