Death Poem.
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
African (General) British (England - Cockney, Estuary, East End) US African AmericanTranscript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
there are semen trees that are lonely, graves full of bones that didn't make a sound They had moving through iTunes in the darkness. Tactless darkness like a ship wreck. We die going into herself, as do we were drawing inside our heart as though we're lived drilling inside our heart, fallen out of just kings into the soul. And there are closest freeze made of cold and sticky place. Ted is inside the bones like a back, um, where there are no drugs coming out from bell somewhere from grave somewhere drawing in the damn like a river. Sometimes I see the little coffee under sail embarking with the bail dead which women that I've dated here with the guests who are as wide as angels and pensive young ladies married to not Republics. Casket sailing up the vertical river of dead the river of deck Papo moving up streams. Which sales feud out of the sound of debt field by the son of dealt, which is silence. Ted arrives among girls sand like a shoe with no food in this, like a soothe with no man in it comes and knocks using their ring witness tones in it with no fingers on it, com's and shout with no mt with the tongue with no throat. Nevertheless, it steps can be hit, and it's clothing makes a harsh sun like a tree. I'm not sure I understand only a little I can hardly see, but it seems to me that is singing has the gun of 10 violence damn violent of violent that at home and the hurt because of the face of the dead, is screen. Yeah, the face of the dead. His green and the look of the dead gives his green where the penetrating dampness of violent least and the samba collar of M beaten winter. But Dad also goes through the war dressed as a broom lap on the floor, looking for dead bodies dead inside the broom and the Bronx inside, dead the tongue of death. Looking for cops, that is, the needle of dead looking for trade debt is inside of folding coats. It's paint its life, sleeping under slow my traces, and the black blanket in silence breaks out. It's blows out a month sound that swears the ****, and the beds go sitting towards the part where daddy is waiting, dressed like an admirers dressed in a white rope. Debt isn't evict. A bubble dead is inevitable.