R/ckets and S/ntries

take the exception, its chance arises from the worth of green hills and the trouble of people. the common cause of mintrelsy and loss erupts in completion, the fate we understand. the aliens aren't more than trusting the momentary. we look with legitimate eyes and worth thrown thru hoops. there's talk in the offing, in a language thrown togther from dross and parts of literal advantage. we all feel doctored. the aliens aren't here to help. they sit atop their desert mountaintops, cloudy in confusion. they have a sentence too. a gamble froth wends time pouring. alas that it all sounds like poetry.