Dear young Matt, why has fate turned you around, and upside down? You left a wife, a boy of mere nineteen winters gone, gone for long. It's well kosher that sunday roast I'll cook at nine. Come over, that brown eyed baby will be mine.
Hitchin in Hertfordshire. Topless drinking Frostie Jack's. 'It will screw you over, sunshine.'
Dear old Matt, why can love not suit you well? It's easy to dwell.
It's well kosher that sunday roast I'll cook at nine. Just come over, that brown eyed baby will be mine.
Your fever must break away. To flower, makes it hard to say. Just if you're lonely then throw that roast away. Put your shirt on, and see the light of day.
@smartbot_tg_bot
