Automatic Writing #3

No amount of roses could ever make me like you

Prude

No longer amused

Boiling room

With red hot barbecue

No laying down

Only standing up

For one of your kinds

No damsel in disguise

No fallen skies

No party to go to your demise

Only the wise

Will rise

No amount of pine could ever jingle the lie

Crude

No longer brand new

Santa rules

With red hot bowling rooms

No singing out

Only shutting up

For one of your lies

No Christmas in the light

No candle skies

Only the wise

Will rise

Only the wise

Will lie