R.37

God must have sculpted a goddess, honestly, a cult following odyssey. Mort prodigy killin everything on site, portrait policy. Snap lord precise, trapperology. Wreckin crew of vice, no apologies. In the city of lights, flickers and quick flix, misfits paradise is a lease on life, apparently. Every right to seize the dice and roll on, no need to be extra where you land, you know, an ode to the swan, so dearly. Draped up in ₩on, prosperity go long, photo shots so calm, her look books a con, robbery in progress, this hearts straight gone. Nothin new, just swooning you, straight fawn.