Raising the army of white fluff

Infinite dandelions.
Hold that thought.
The curtains are finally open.

Infinite dandelions: All hail the yellow sun.
Hold that thought.
The snare goes Dun-dun, Dun-dun.

Infinite dandelions turn yellow into dead white.
Sway to the thought.
The quartet is high as a kite.

Infinite dandelions and the drunken wind – A journey to the skin of the sun.
Glide with the thought.
The flutes AKA the wooden sirens.

Infinite dandelions over the new moon.
Shiver with the thought.
The tuba plays a scary tune.

Infinite dandelions drenched in blood wine rain.
A wet thought.
The piano stimulates a bump train.

Infinite dandelions on your drenched frock.
Another wet thought.
Black metal as loud as fuck.

Infinite dandelions laid as a bed.
An infinity thought.
Sax has to be enjoyed naked.

Infinite dandelions snowing from heaven.
Freeze that thought.
A buzzing singing bowl on the belly button.

Infinite dandelions melting over the clit.
A caressing thought.
The violin, the viola, the cello, any weapon with a raised hilt.

Infinite dandelions, worth each sigh.
Grab that thought.
A rap battle between the thigh.

Infinite dandelions, crushed to shambles.
Hold, hold that thought.
Piqued brown-nipped breasts for cymbals.

Infinite dandelions, moaning in unison.
A penetrating thought.
A trombone has a pump action.

Infinite dandelions, aching to soar.
Hold that surge.
The complete Operatic ensemble, huge uproar.

Infinite dandelions, rendered amiss.
Don’t hold.
Explode. Drop the bass.

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