Brent Everett And Brent Corrigan Full

The naive wanderer.



We do not dream up, when only 20. Decades
let go because the time flies. And the beautiful Corbiere
today and yesterday,
We recall that the streets are also cemeteries.

Under the blackness of her hands, her body, her breasts,
Perfume injury sniffs the world from a kid,
Who saw his heart surrounded (commonly) the hands of a thief
of honesty planted thorns.

And pass the wanderer, innocent desire,
amiable and unhappy, who secretly likes him,
And in this old town populated by a lot of lousy,
The streets are cemeteries for dreamers perky,

And the light s 'off the scene old hearts
Who does not licking their wounds, and close their eyes, For the beautiful
Corbiere who was once afraid
left without him, see the days getting old.