R/ckets and S/ntries

inventing farmer generation, all the while the sun melts but does so fragrantly, the charm of great oat plants looking steelly and prefect in the noonday sun, foremost cattle and provinces of pig control all visions and requisite, prefect distils the perfection with great tales of herds of watermelon going to sweetly market, and delectable pieces of chickens are hermetically sealed for your prefection, because belief lives in our orange farmhouse and the daft but colourful aliens seem so mirthful as they land in the cornfield amongst great armies of potential popcorn, political winds blow hard and heaving during storm time when the mighty farmers must adversely prevent the elements from overtaking market share, can the peace that passeth all beguile a nice radish early from the ground? will peas seem as sweet as delirium when we talk about what the fuck? is this war amongst us or a storage facility somewhere else? prefect vision of idol warship, with whom do we consult as the glistering dew transfixes the eye that rests upon tomatoes? what would you give right now?