pure vocal machinations

The situation was serious so bring the trusty anchor to rest. A roundish man, round body, round head, a stylish mustache, perhaps waxed just enough to lift the black tips dispersed, destroyed, engulfed a silver disk flashed as he withdrew the music from its case, unleashing the pure vocal machinations born and bred in the fifties and sixties, tuxedo clad, a cocktail in hand, a medley of songs engineered to hit the eye like the moon.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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