August 7, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles
you first stepped on the ice to an ovation. three down the barrel rolling when you travel spinning when you glide bye there's no fear there's no salt there's no gait in your bait french was all you heard stripes were all you saw they can keep their black books their pencil-jot notes you'll sky hole pie high flat beat or swerve and seep if it ain't beautiful it ain't worth doin'
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