Ode to Kissy
Paws: I am a plantation for the York of your tourist attraction. It is
hereditary, a fixed complication on the map of wedding dress photos and we just
cannot go against thirst like that, not so swiftly and without courting
rituals. Things keep happening to increase my utility bill and drum down my
thank you card collecting and that all amounts to a helluva lot of occipital
rage. It's savagery! I'm out to get all those mother dearest's who want to
pluck me wit my own cheek and tassel my steam control. This is not some such or
somehow or even somewhere but it is something really tre annoying. WHEN
LIFESTYLES COLLIDE THEY SOMETIMES BECKON THE BEAKS OF AMMO AND TRUDGE AMONG
THEM WITH FLEET FEET AND SNOTTTY NOSES. This is a ragamuffin marriage proposal
and one that takes too long to complete with reasonable doubt periods in
between. I have numerical values to sort and solidify with cylindrical driving
and perchance a bit of squealing from the fan girls who will internalise my
actions with the breath of their adolescent hands.
Ode to the
Colt in my sandwich bag: doing for don't will not break my heart as I ride this
third gondola from the left down the tributary strip with hopes that your
lovely little ball sack will channel my kernel of quite relinquished respect.
Its a tether to the dimension that lies between your lamplight love and you
cannot make two identities out of one that's going down in a creepy box for the
sake of the man with the marmalade in his beard. We gave im the chance to
romance his Genghis on top of a workaholic lady friend i of his so that they
could just simply level with one another and let all the ministry business go
floating down some tyrannical vulcan lake. Think of it as a suicide that the
boatman doesn't anticipate but in fact types out for the summary of virtual
fear outbreak. It lashes your Nefertiti
tongue an absolvers all the records for the sake of the glum chums who are
working on the dock to make a buck for the pretty, knee-deep stranglers with
all their glowering in their eyes and all their Maize in their cross-stitch.
It's just like laughter all over again.
Ode to
Something on Your Mind: is there a dribble of doubt in the back parts of your
nether section? is ther e away out of the wake that doesn't involve colliding
headfirst with the deceased and all of their more delicate relatives? Isn't it
just marvellous how we can get along with our pastimes and not even once
considering the sexiness of the truth? You're doing it again, rolling your eyes
and flattening your thighs for the moneymakers and their monkeymakers. Now
seems a good time as any to establish your musical origin and to trust the
farce of the gecko on the wooden log in front of the campfire. It's high time
we sweep you up.
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