The Crops are all in

The crops are all in, the red iron has rusted. l’m taking a bus across the barron hill road. l’m Iooking for love – none to be found – its the individual who suffers, in vain – the overall picture is numb, no feelings – just a haughty, know-it-all vision, expressing itself in huge flourishes of its sky high purple robes, just a grand perspective looking on, from an oblivious distance.

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