hatstuck snarl

theoretically, a hairstyling salon


Stepping on out into a Chilly wind, I
might Hesitate, twist
and salvage my Rope lacy wool cap, but who’d subdue my nose
among some gunk unsteady? I covet phony trudge lumber,
untenable treeS, heavy red who whip agreeable
gawk: indeed, an uncivil fricTion crude choice, an essay on
eggnog baloney, soMething other but fierce, nothing
like SAnta, nothing but icy brune bleat, one
romp on the rooftop with twelve Stony hard feet.


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