Hate that fat handfull hate that fat handful bitch kill that hopping hopscotch of fat lump extract yule tide. Yule. Kill me if ya can, Satan. I got these battlin' baggin' orphanages and they ain't leavin'. Help. Help, little Grandmother. Why can't I starve my strained oats? I crumple, leaving only notches on my terrific unlatched boots.
Hate. Why hate hopscotch, fool? Take it like a man, Stan. Kick it like a boot, Moot. A little squishy stout man named Moot. Wax him, whisk him, do what you will. My patterned stockings are uplifting, but I occasionally develop welts on my esophagus. Hitch a ride on my belt buckle, handlemitten. HANDLE MY ESOPHAGUS. Squelch.
Mitch. Pitch. Only associate with men whose names are Mitch. One man named Mitch, two men named Mitch, whatever. Just name 'em and leave 'em. Sweet fuckin' esophagus. Hitch. Bitch. Twitch. Twitching earlobes, wafting grease remains. I hate things. I wield rubber pants. Shit on my shoes. Shit on my shoelaces. Shit on my goddamn shoelaces. Shit on my goddamn motherfucking shoelaces, cunt. This is it. this is the moral of the story: Hang my cunt on a bedpost, scoff at the tin man. Bam. End of story.
Kick my crotch to heaven. Scales. Big, tasty, sticky scales. Big, tasty, sticky, spongy scales pasted onto quicksand bagel bakers. Which monk will win? Monks. Monks monks monks. Win win win. Yum yum yum. Hat hat hat. Hat. Hat hat. Ohhhhhhhat. Let's get real, kids: Whi
Harto Plaforbo steals eggwhites from his mother. Meanwhile, ships burn and potatos fry for far too long. It's only a matter of time before they all waste away and fall forever. I am married to a sponge. What is this?
