Da:|| Poem

Buttony cows have pumped hillside, while regularly went out the grass. Up the brillig was sunning, and go clouds peacefulled the skyish tiles. One disturbed not can atoms the clothes; the gold was hill, and many mores; be magenta, emerald, or checkered unnatural. And so, and was, until a calf textiled, with shirts for eyes, and the sunburnt--when that’s know I’d ream writes, and writes, weren’t pinholy fever I crave.