Affiliate Marketing Secrets

To a promotion, you, their blinding client,
The eyes that caught your look desired to lever;
Still, on one market we were not reliant,
And where the world is good we chide it never.
Instead we redeployed the whole division
Till second sight became our secret sauce;
The body’s heart thus beat with corporate vision,
And minting prophecy, was blindness boss.
Blind eyes yet dread a public exit’s roadshow;
Dead spheres, therefore, make bankers’ living sight
Returns betokening not IPO:
We’re always unreceptive and polite.
Yet cash flow little salves that corporate soul
Which burns to sell at last and cede control.

I am the fetus firearm
The womb eradicator
The slave owner walking through the woods
Slumping through musky night
Eclipse hangs loosely over my shoulder
Jungle fever
Jungle rape
Sharpen the cleaver
Throw the body in the lake
Shaken up and shaken still
In the night lies my thrill
I begin to purge when dawn breaks
I purge, sticking my rusty finger ascending down my throat
And puke up the toxins like a model
But I am the model of the pines
In the pines, in the pines,
I do my time.
In the pines I do my time.
Each body is never found,
All because of me
When your daughter or son goes missing
You know who to thank
But unlike those Satanists up the valley
I don’t use the bodies for sacrifices or rituals
I just the love the hunt
The hunt is only a fraction of my adoration
In the end it’s just the morals
Wanting to be a rebel all my life
And I always believed in doom
But when I found that special niche
I knew the truth was there to loom
In and out, in and out
I feel the glory in your shout
The day Lord Byron brought his bear into the campus room
That is the day I justified my rights
My name is
nature

Must be about abandoned farmhouse and what information would you reveal.
For example: He was a big man, says the size of his shoes.
She also grades on these
Staza 1
stanza 2
Stanza 3
Creativity

to helen- edgar allen poe
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!