冰猫侦探社

My couplets are crude. My eyes  bleared, with strain and sigh. Long night ground colors. Darker than cased blood, Light as fish eggs. I wonder where can be found some driftwood  waving a dying hand. Maybe at my bedside? Clean cut over slogging saw, Death better than doubt. A grand ending gives everything A punch can.

First day in a new year,  clean as linen; assured as a scissor cut. Cups crumbs in the curve, unfolds till drum-tight; Trims odds and  ends till nothing left.  For desire doomed to despair the room is made.  A wish in curlicue is your wage. For a substanti al soul, no cure is but spared. In all its solidity, a drag will devour you one-piece one-bite.