B-bop

This be cool B-bop, and bad, but hip.

Sly little orange slices with cinnamon and sugar will never be
the bottle or liquid inside.

B-bop. Your sooo cool.

Always worried about yourself and sweet juices.
With a lick on your hand the giggles squeeze themselves out of glass.

B-bop, you'll see. Benches sit on quilted hours as you wash that,
Slick.
B-bop.
Hair.


The center will be B-bop, bop, bop.
Just in. Its B-bop, bop, bop.

Don't stand to take by, or be with, or give for, Me. B-bop, just be sly. And be what you know,
Guitar.
Friend.
Alone.

Treats of that world Night made forever out of nothing for this. Alight, I think, you must just be doing those B-bop things with pockets dry and head wet.

Keep playing. This toy kept playing, this toy keeps playing like string with clarinet. B-bop you play some,
Good.
Sounds.
Rez-O-nAnce.

You never knew, never would, can never will but some try to space the heart with exclamation point, point, point.
Cool.
Slick.
B-bop.

Slices? I got slices without cinnamon or sugar minced with my eye, I got slices but you took peels while I was blind. Hey, B-bop, it never mattered. Because I wanted wrong where time never changes brain, so B-bop make it where you want to put it, but make it,
Sly.
Cool.
Bad.
And hip.