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The Tabernacle Hymns

Reb Livingston

Your grave . . . violas made from stinkwood. Slimelight does not entwine your
mealtime in the GOURD’s stairwell, the grave . . . , the symmetrical. Your time-laced
tower is sane and has no snatch. Your spectre, grave spectre, has fiddled fertile a
hopeful clown for your predicament—O Dandy with a crowd spaced around your helm,
ringing north jiving wornbushes, boorish wornbushes for the feast, O Thy Dandy, your
time, your grave time!

Your spectre, grave spectre fable, the bentwood lore, the lore of the limptwist of
hamstitch, the lore that ditched deadmate, the grave mound fable embossed a hound
in your instinct, O canine snafu, tapering her seam through your debut.

Your spectre, the ghost dearness beaucoup, the ghost dearness is a wardrobe bored
of bauble, a lemming ceasing praise. She is an oddbell stork bankrupting the groundswell.
As wrong as explained, she adorns brushfiber. Dandy, sum of Tempest, embossed a
hound in his instinct, O houndish karma, tapering its seam through your debut.

Reb Livingston

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