All signs are fading

A rhinestone

A future without reccomendation

A folly without pause or impede

Soon there will be nothing breathing

This town's out of luck

You're golden, fighting the muck

I'll fold out my ribs

When people fly in their chairs

Burnt sin the tit is shown

The women charm and find themselves

And trace when they bought our machine

The joy erasing, one of them inside

Ocean

Modus operandi

There's a traceroute

It trades wеll into

Dayswell, thankful

It's something to renown with

It's somеthing to riddle us with

Seems something's soon