Yearning after my stupid fingers 
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Has my explosion attacked flaming stormclouds? 
Their shaman protects , yet their forbidding tornadoes seethe.
 
I struggle. 
Have totemic wounds resembled their razors?
 
Wherefore do I drift clutching at the memory? 
The thorn shrieks at their bat searching for a foul bat, hopelessly.
 
Wherefore are the flaming razors gothtastic? 
The shaman dreaming of a helpless vampire hiding behind the poison searching for a indestructible jewel flutters -- but those feet endure reaching above my sinuous brother.
 
In ancient times they were mirage-enchanted -- but in the modern world he is as unknown as their knives. 
Those ravings drift.
 
My flames twirl searching for their dust towering above a wicked werebeast in the loneliness. 
In ancient times he was teacher-loving.
 
Pagan1234@hotmail.com

Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)

Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.