Hunting Doves - Collab with Einstein NoodleA Poem by BMourning for themselves, it seems, they coo. Proper load for the killing is one ounce of eights. Kill as many as you can; they are small. There can be no turning of cheeks today. As sheets fly in classy white Knowledge imparted by the profile Low keys of feelings saying no Hurting the words Lack of senseless lurking Within the curious mind Rides a form of dove Blinking out the rut How far can they go, after all; evolution calls the young ones squabs. They pick at mother's neck for crop milk. Who ever said this is somehow better? They whistle through tails when they leave. © 2017 BReviews
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15 Reviews Added on April 3, 2017 Last Updated on April 4, 2017 Author
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