SUNDAY AFTER A GOOD ***** - Gloria set her jugs on the counter-top while Tracy played hide-the-muffin like a good little girl. “Where are my tweezers?” Baynard asked. “I'm gay and I need them.” Just then Captain Foster walked in. He had been at sea for 3 weeks. “Kiss me!” He demanded, followed by the sea-horn effect that made Chelsea cringe. “Oh, hi Dad,” she said painfully, as her ****** still stung from the hornet sting. “Why were you running bottomless through farmer Watson's meadow?” Bay asked. “I told you,” Chelsea whispered devilishly, “I was chasing an Irish fairy.” Suddenly there was a loud rhythmic banging coming from the apartment upstairs. “It sounds like the gay swingers are having an **** again,” the Captain said as his bell bottom trousers slipped to the floor. “Who wants to play Toni Tennille?” He asked brazenly.

SLAY THE MONARCH & THE PROGRAM whilst ***** smokes
shadows upon walls indebting ***** to plucky seven vinegar strokes
I see no point projecting unlaid, lay-about chicks from routine coax
of Kabuki theater flim-flamming quackery that's a penny-ante hoax
wrecked banjaxed on grimy floors sudsed-in crap in which it soaks
I'll never see Cleveland alive as Mother is making it with some fly
whose stolen Detroit dives to hell under ***** bucks who are high
on fed cheese that is curdled & matured on the Chinese ****** lie
broadcasted across seas placid by radio hoo-hoo below half-life sky
tenting fortified wines blended with hops, barley and mildewed rye
in bath tubs devoid of naked wenches morally-wonked and gun-shy
working the angles on de-lousing Camden: old New Jersey's pig sty
because the sight of immorally-uncivil plans blind the Lutheran eye
Subhan Allah, David & Goliath, Samson & Delilah must wilt & die
as cities ***** & Gomorrah substituted fruit cake for pumpkin pie
legions of sodomites patrolled all alleyways as curfews didn't apply
when crusaders knighted moralistes Chrétiens were in short supply
& negroids unarmed had no choice in whitey nations but to comply
'cause guns over butter win the body-count, nobody alive can deny,
while prisoners without tongues are so stuck-up, they will not reply
till they overcome their dispositions as amputees tongue-tied & shy
about swift kicks to those Chaz Bono regions that cause men to cry
in an ionospheric register that shouldn't emanate from a normal dye
except in incorporated Amìr̃kà where each prison fry cook must fry
or suffer the fate that ruined commanding lieutenant William Bligh
whose sympathy was such that he'd have done better not to even try
tasteless breadfruit diplomacy upon a sweaty-palmed Christian guy
as it was a tipsy, get-go endeavor like herding cats & feeding slaves
or burying a whacked **** in any of Idaho's tourist-attracting caves
opposite a funky monument to governor Butch Otter making waves
without his buck teeth, quaffing ****** from barrels lacking staves
to enshrine an ape-scraped pate or picnicker's litany of close shaves
from the living, dying by demi-godlike, semi-doctors' clots & raves
in the bowels of the A.M.A. & the C.D.C. for Luciferian conclaves
while suppressing experiences of saving at Equibank in olden days
before gay Pittsburgh was inundated with homosexual lesbian gays
who imbibed ****-soaked chicory quenchers on pap-smeared trays