.one of those low... low oh my god how low... hanging fruits... i.e. check... check... *****! akimbo in a "critical" pose of... Skiba's take on the current polish-"lithuanian" government via: pchła szachrajka... everything is just all oh too all too ****** obvious! without that blonde quiff... without graffiti sport of the politicians... the words are as cheap as the most ******* *****-*****... when all one desires... is an unveiling from the territory of: the virgins under the niqab curtain of the house of Saud! yes yes shouts the ****** without the requisite body parts... one side lost to the dolls... the other to the guillotined ******! sport a longer beard than Muhammad... and a mullet longer than the... well... longer than the hassidy-yoddle of a curly-furly payot... or less.. strapped-on than those anglican... victorian sideburns... moi? moi? je suis... encore de... l'efforts... "kazik" de kulte... nous respiré... nous toussé... nous étouffé... nous seulement oublié que à rire... i think that debate was sort-of-settled when i found that... the french... share my etymological-root of mother grammar? the french also forgot, "forgot" to trill their R... instead... hark it they did... and... well... que à rire... i was "sort of" expecting a(n) - the N needs to see this...  forgo no god: to see the french "rear"... riré! god forbid the exclamation mark was the denoting: just enough padre... that western slavic shares the same grammatical structure as fwench... and what english is german and is also backwards... that the english hid their R-trill in the science of numbing... comfort... anesthetic and the tarantula kiss... well... fueds of neighbours... at least one of the ten commandments should suffice them... me? well... a ménage à trois includes me and at least two ******?! no? then i will not be labouring myself over the women publiushing print in the Style magazine of a Sunday edition of a newspaper... with some mr. candy not being on social media... ergo the internet is HER playground... otherwise my amazon.com and the disappearing highstreet... and internet banking... and none of the sort of things teenage boys were getting to test with come the late 1990s... now that social media... run a peacock's full Monet and symphony before her eyes... she... "she" has the reins?! how does a horse turn left? is it... left at the reins tugged with the jaw... and the right heel pressing into the torso? i should have learned some french... i've been to Paris twice... lucky for me... there's not a third's luck of chance to replicate the summers of: 2004... and... whatever the year was... the hostel? oh sure... it might have been: the fleeing three ducks... the three drunken ducks... yep... or just... the 3 ducks hostel... we drank ourselves silly and started running toward the Eiffel tower... because... that was November... and it was Paris... and don't let them tell you any ******* about Paris... Paris come the last efforts of autumn... when it doesn't rain... that's Paris for me... or at least: that's what Paris was... i would be beyond being tired: the youth is gone... there's a beard instead of long hair... and there are those puffy cheeks from drinking rather than from gluttony... n'ah... more likely i'll be the one sending a postcard from Sobibor... or some... god-forsaken place... if not... dreaming of Istambul... and soke rat-infested ****-house of a scribbling me: the noon with tide... to sketch a shadow of my own... very purposively built... architecture of demise... i'll leave as i lace this life with: destitute... well... god forbid i should be leaving this world with a Solomon's harem... or Muhammad's ambition harem... or... a panic in babylon... or... i should hope... to be leaving this world... attired... with... that sober note... Belshazzar was left with... i'd want to left with fear... exactly: a fear that i should be made as an offering upon the altar of sacrifice of reincarnation for the hindu deities! here's my: "my" tetragrammaton.

also called: rifles without bullets...
or... how the red army battled
against **** germany...

one poor **** was sent running
with a rifle...
another poor **** was
sent running with bullets...

no need for bullets i guess....
just... hitchhikers... so (idle thumbs)...
        Prato Rifles &... Burdock Bullets...

unless one of the two poor russian buggers
met the other one...
and either had the bullets:
to subsequently get the rifle...
or had the rifle... and got the bullets...

reverse all logic... when it comes
to the spezial Prato Rifles & Burdock Bullets.