A green oak tree's by a curve curvy. A gold chain on the docus felt. A night and day a cat must learn it, walks by the chair, around, around. When he walks right, sweet songs in Tony, when leftwards tells a fairy tale. Wanda's are there, wood spirits roaming. Mermaids from branches hang their tail. On paths so which no one has knowledge, a fencing beasts they lock the spores. On chicken legs a little cottage stands without windows, without doors. With wisions root and dail are yawning. Their waves come crushing cat lights dawning upon the sandy empty beach. And thirty nights in armour gorgeous, the clear sea one by one discogious, with their sea sword coach them to teach. And their king son that we chance sing a long fiat song, thus captive seas. The past the people, past clouds passing, right through the woods, right through the seas, a weas at best a night with ease. A princess there's in prison pining, a brown wolf faithful by her line. The Baba Yaga's mortal dread itself with her inside the dread. Their tsar caché on his gold mortus, the ration sense of rath's giveo des. And their wrath passed and honey waft and seen the oak by the curve curving, said under it and the cat learned his fairy tales to me repast. I've one remember and this story through me no comes to light. Walt glory.