Poems from Nolan Westerman
T’was the middle of the day and all was about.
All were awake, except for one snout.
Throughout the busy city and the peaceful...
What is this from another time?
Shall it be his, or shall it be mine?
I do so wish for its perfect skin,
its brief height with high raised...
What is this from another time?
Shall it be his, or shall it be mine?
I do so wish for its perfect skin,
its brief height with high raised...