The rain has far away cleaned our lips of words, perfectly,
Of every remaining one,
As moths have broken into our dreams far way back,
When he found himself not playing the game he was there, way far back.
Honesty mightn't help now. But hope is dead, so;
Often, when weather (or climate) has no more some effect, on anything.
Still rain be the favorite musical of Your-self,
you,
with additional dazzle you stare. Then, every day is
Like a day made for banana fishlet,
Or fish.