You're the sentence, Chaucer,
the subject of my story.
If a sweven is a dream and
If tonight was last night,
then idk what the frick Imma do with
mah life. Honestly. Chaucer.
Ynough!
What where you thinking?!
Every time I read the Tales,
I deye inside. My soul turns blake.
And I'm a wight, a person.
You've got some sense of humor.
I see that nyce is synonymous to foolish
and to have a wood is madness, woodnesse.
Oh, I will make werre to you.
Make werre long time, I seye.
My patience is lite in kynde, little in nature,
inversely proportionate to my wood.
Nathelees, I'll read you
with my tweye eyes.
Chaucer.
Chowder.
Who gives a damn?
Thine Illustrious Charmander
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