.                 you don't come between
                a partridge,
   and a porridge...
expecting to leave...
  with a ******* woodland
pigeon:
as a... "surprise" babushka
                               doll...
                                "innuendo...
you leave?
with a lightning-storm...
no thunder...
  no rain...
    but a *dasein...
     and when you infringe
the privacy ownership
laws
of the guy living next to you...
and then he takes to a leather
belts... carefully wraps it
around his arm, wrist,
    and knuckles...
like he might take to
undertaking a boxing glove?
sure...
   you can test what the
2nd option is...
    after he sobers up via...
starts boxing himself in
the face to giddy-up...
with the 1st line of conduct:
drop,
    the,
                 argument...
but the english citizens
seem to be stupid...
  i'm ready to
teach them Romanian,
or Bulgarian...
    strawberry pickers,
factory workers
spreschen...
    i'm itchy!
                   i just can't wait!
you: come between me,
and my volk?
the irish?
           that's the least
of your worries...
    never... never under-estimate
the irish...
                                picts?
   those clumsy
****-suckers of Westminster?
give 'em a pass...
given that the Cardiff-*****
were already, purely,
the cuntish Welsh....
love it...
     like a continent... on a bunch
of islands...

and i could be vill-i-am con...
but... as cedric the saxon
said...
                  don't, touch, their, women...
we don't want our blood,
watered down...

no, seriously...
when and english woman starts
to dictate via revision,
the concept of private
property?
          now? now i'm not
longer *******...
    now i'm berserker modus operandi -

tunnel vision...
   horses...
                 with the blinders...
           at a funeral procession...

is this englishwoman,
even,              remotely serious?
can i take relief...
and start sharpening
the knives?
  dunno...
       perhaps i just like the sound
entombed in the act.