Baby C'mon

Let's go drinking until we can't feel feelings anymore(Peter Griffin, thy voice is an aural cheese grater, but that is also Buddha-esque manna sent, to the drinking set, set). Pacifiers for everyone! To all my babies, binkies, or whatever you may call them. Why do you all, try so hard to fuck them all, all up? You. Yes you. Me too. And now, a yada abacadabra proof. Smoke in your eyes, and fires on your mind, or the memory of banked ones, past crash and burns. When you were aflame and said you'd be their living end, and they said so to you, so you two became one, then separated but still intertwined and you don't know if you'll survive the surgery when the Siamese cut comes. Damn rime riche I'm a slime, or maybe mold on the black, but red. And the children take upon their backs, what you've laid down on the way to your next, next.