Barrel Race

 

 

Say at the spoken to the blast as the worth is in the snail what is the span,

a blank part to the sake at the word of complete,

The stride of how to world a day,

the place to spot more than a saddle to tell a girth,

this is the rain.

 

On every pour to the pitcher of every spire,

in the nail of my tale on the day of my pier? 

I spot nothing with the ground as the denomination say.

 

Take the fail and say a life?

where is the live?

 

Travel note to the spark that fell the pen,

in that taste the letter and the words will habit a lock,

on every key the notch,

this is the fit.

 

Place your tongue on the soil,

in the dirt feel the breeze,

in such touch the wheat of more than a day on the world of grow.

 

Mark that with the crop of batch to batch the math as the language of a store,

in every storm or mountain snail be it the the ram or the horn,

it is the bridge, the valley, the water?

 

How deep is the Grand Canyon before the sun lit the fact,

is flat the depth of the ice on the glaciers glass?

 

Is this the run to the face of more than a sip of art,

walking a shore,

what is the sand?

 

Making of to the flood of book where is the person that said hook.

 

Travel not on the blank to say that it is fill for the Valley would have bridged,

in tail to bent the tree would have look backwards?

 

Where is the fail,

on that is the bridge?

 

What planet left to write the storm on such a shore that shutters became blinds,

this earth on the navigation gave only lung,

a place to breathe.

 

For every facial expression on nothing to the sky that touching would not apply,

fly?

 

Where is the balance on the taste of egg as the chicken did coupe and the copper did shine,

what is that to the coin on the heads with the tails on the rib,

where is the date when I am new,

this is the bridle of despair,

a letter to speak.