Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Tinker Tailor, Dick

Golem hatred punk, let's move outside the ice cream solids.   
I believe you have been optimized, doped for poop and left out of tigh-time to regret your strength.
Don't regret it o hey.
Bulb the sofa, lewd armchair radior destroy the particulars
I don;'t care :(
This is just something cared for, something sacred and knife junk rodeo baby
I cable carred your face?
No cream on my steam.
No weight lifter peppered with and oxygen belt and saved until the rape of humanity became my
fuzziest dice.   
No what?
Who believes you?   
God believes you and can;'t stand the fact that you above all else have swollen up
to the size of a creotene monument to the poopific bobisha of extremee and unintelligeably tight knowledge.   

I don;'t even know which bank or which vashon island to call you from.

I called a slick onion out of the dark 
and what happened you ask?

Well, tiny whats' his face left the podium.

Tiny whats the skeleton and I once saw my hand giving a handjob.