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And to our hut prelai.

A cold email,

There are only lines of pain in it,

A feather is stuck in my heart,

It oozes blood,

And if you will,

He won’t come back,

I’m sorry, but we have stenches,

Like the marshes at the head of the bed.

Believe it or not,

But there are many turfs in life,

And if in the dawn of years,

You’re your own man, believe me.

When it arrives,

Only the north will save me,

And if you’re safe,

It will only be clover.

Your nickname, of course, is Watchdog,

Fits your collar,

You’re torn and I want to let go,

But you’re not coming back bandit bos,

I’ll let you go, but only for a moment,

If you run away, you’ll want to eat.

When you come back, I know where to look for you,

You’ll hide in

the yards opposite, You thoroughbred one, dragging your fate,

So, you’re not a mongrel, you should know

You went to the hunters, for nothing,

You don’t like cats to cheat.

City streets, schools, and burrs

Cars, soccer fields, like aliens,

We go to warehouses, gyms, and clubs,