my Atlanta

In the manor, the speakeasy is turnt and beveling. In a manner of speaking, the regency is burnt and reveling; it's doves-down more outrageously supple than milled wheat bricktoads. It's too loud for my Atlanta. I've climbed hills and still find peace in my Atlanta. Under the bridge and near the stadia...Atlanta. Oh, that we would weep for stills and portraits of mossy oak and dark waters punctuated by oil-rubbed bronze chimera Troupes. Our wishlist, ever Guadalupe, will plough through preeminently stained vacuoles uncontested and unmarred (despite refereeing climactic post 10 year anniversary dinner pressure cooker release fights). It's easy when potential energy has been fully converted to kinetic and at the local minimum we've got an easy ride with the wind in our face. Ain't winning any Pulitzers here. I'm just trying to save you the heartache to which I'm well accustomed. It's the heartache that accompanies any miser that grapples with the hard issues while crying hysterically behind peanut butter frosted glass. Challenging times lie ahead. My Atlanta will be the subterfuge.