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Poems
Mar 2018
My thighs are hot, hotter than a fire burning a cot, hotter than a gay fire man eating a ripe banana that he bought, hotter than baked snot on a sandy cemetery plot
Please Lord Jesus, don't stare, at my Leonid Brezhnev eyebrow hair
I'll launder your long-sleeve shirts, till my hairy, monkey back hurts
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หขโฑแตแตแตโฟแต แดฎแตแตแตแต, หขโฑโฟแตแตแตแตสณแต
(หขโฑแตแตแตโฟแต แดฎแตแตแตแต, หขโฑโฟแตแตแตแตสณแต)
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