The smell of wheat mine whatever I have I am a pitch of what I do to you
Plagent of this tribe. You
You are thinking of the iron forest and the scratching I think of a room for your sleep My body is my wheat stem We are the most thirsty for a drop of water
The smell of my wheat whatever I have. Gold Your body like my ax has a hard root Potting a heart, but the tree is
The smell of my wheat whatever I have I have a dirt of my soil. I do not have you I do
The smell of my wheat whatever I have mine A part of my soil.
