Why Is It Always Sunday

When they go down? Bud bottle breaks. Ah now you've gone and profiled, it wasn't even like that, but if you've got your story made up. Go on bring it back, when you've thrown it off for better rumor you'll see it fit just right. Another after, another close shave, in this bright blue dark. Did I say stubble? I meant stumbling lark. Driven on, within and without, caught on fences, snagged on hose, struggling wounded back to the burrow and I don't know what all; or at all.