Becoming a lard is the muse of a fat cow. Having a slab of butter invigorates within. So forging the ticket for a fat person.
Marina is at the trench of a batholith emerging.
Flying over to forge the fake flag. Bottling up at the warm fire of the grotto. So that smoothly flows the melting icing. Trying to give your kisses consolation. Grandiose and machismo in your devils' lap, Rastafarian in the stomach of your faeces.