two items of interest, that make sense
in an english society these days,
susanna hoff... mm, mm...
             a gal that makes
jerking off a tedium...
                                     what?!
- ****, said it out-loud,
romancing an italian got me
everty, single time,
just the sort of thing that
aged, nearing retirement polish
galls get up to,
spicing up their retirement age.
the exfoliation of the 80s hairstyles
makes a lot of sense with
a niqab thrill for a fake *****....
      she can call it modesty -
i just call it faking latex lucy
with her celluloid -
  pucker that one, *****?
                       yoju know what,
i actually hate living around
these nincompoopss....
                     politics actually made
sense in the victorian era,
not the second Elizabethan era,
ma'am...
          sorry, you cultivated
a generation of window-lickers....
         you'd sooner get more of
these, things,
   if you chopped their limbs off...
they're not even equipped
at flapping,
     imitating wings...
                       let's call it a blockbuster
evening's end by suckling on
the suggestion,
when idi amin cut off
the limbs of his cheating bride
              kay amin -
and, miracle! behold!
             he reattached her feet
to the place where her hands ought to be,
and also reattached her hands
where her feet out to be!
     that, i thought, was a spectacular
caterpillar...
      many memories of fluttering
butterflies came from that image,
   let me assure you!
            duck fat written all over it!
mm... yum!
                 sorry...
i always get the impression that
the english have to write sarcasm to
invite parody.
hmm... maybe it's just me...
perhaps i'm a soloist in guising
the current affairs.
maybe not being black enough
will wake the Zulu in me
to match up to, tailor and suit up
adorning the english youth and
thinking nothing of:
               those limbs aren't 'elping,
are they, if we're really
serious about growing these
gluttonous barons of bloat and carnal
flesh, with an inner narrative
that resides in a scrap-heap dubbed:
Newton... what's the point
of a wasted pint's worth of time?