"attendant" poems
the ***** ghost
comes to those who have suffered long
the agony of torrid loves hunger
he is a savior that needs to be saved
a glittering pageant of ****** despair
his color sapphire
a weeping shell
a dark cloud of smoldering ash
that never burns out
he is heat and light
he can smell the musk between your legs
taste tears of want
as if they are his own
his ****
bursting like trees
bludgeon hard, substanceless
no you can't put your finger on it
your heart
a weeping furnace
your parched mouth dire
is his
the emptiness between your legs
is his
he comes to you a vacant smudge
then,
white attendant with black eyed gems
be not afraid
he was lost in life
a moralist
who could not find Jacobs ladder
nor free him self of false boundaries
set upon him by the good people
their minds spider bites and corpses
who imagined a god
who loved them by decrees
of thou shalt not not not
and did not know
that flesh needs flesh
and only human love could save him
then to the grave,
just a ***** ghost theory
to the living
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
thus by prosecutor charg-ed, with this crime so heinous~ed,
the judge insisted on a super speedy trial, this, a special case-d
"can't wait to hang this ***** be~deviler,
got me a jail, second only to hell,
if he thinks his hifalutin lawyers will get him de-roped!"
I plead guilty to save the state some moola,
avoid the expense of all the attendant hoopla,
but in my tired defense, I said little but this,
it was god who cursed me with this word-ly power!
now I ain't saying I was naturally bad,
but who are you to judge me so harshly ,
when all I did, with a tool god~given, was,
tell people how beautiful they are, so close.
never far, from bringing them forth to their fruition
so my intentions were good, tho my goose is cooked,
loonily, this I truthfully willingly confess, though just as bad,
I was lazy, I was negligent, I am now hell-bent for many
infractions, the greatest, chiefest of them all, was all the times,
!!!!!
***read a poem much beloved by other's on this blue earth,
weak from jealousy jealous, I never...reposted it! for their way
much better than mine, and I was too selfish to praise them,
so I expect I won't be too lonely in perdition, just another poet***
!!!!!!!! addition
*so children, teach your children well
a poet's hell will slowly go by, if they
fail to repost them hundreds of poems
that mak'em gasp~laugh-just plain weep,
for that will really **** (sorry lord) the one
true judge wh gave us this wordy blessing,
and is eagerly awaiting us special*
sinners
and that just might be my one true name…
(Oh sinner~man!
where are you gonna run too)
[{(]})]
p.s. this poem readily available to be reposted ('jes a 'gestion)
even
plagiarized elsewhere, but remember, when you, who stole it,
somebody's a~watching whose
vision is unimpaired.
plus, I got new software invented by Ai trained teachers,
so so, easy to find ya...
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
These nowhere towns,
Mountain tops snow-capped long through march,
All else,
Enshrouded in brown.
Though people live here,
And seems they aren't broken down.
The paint peels from the motel,
The mother tends to her daze,
The attendant ponders the insects of the sill,
Tumbleweed the only things, un-willing of being still.
Life is good here,
In these hazy,
Background,
Nowhere towns.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 7:54 PM UTC
Changing Names and Changing Faces
Changing Times and Changing Places
The emptiness remains the same
The Sunna Sutta,
Part of the Pali canon,
Relates that the monk Ananda,
Buddha's attendant asked,
"It is said that the world is empty, the world is empty, lord.
In what respects is it said that the world is empty?"
The Buddha replied, "Insofar as it is empty of a self
Or of anything pertaining to a self: Thus it is said,
Ananda, that the world is empty.
Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form
Emptiness is not separate from form,
Form is not separate from emptiness
Whatever is form is emptiness,
Whatever is emptiness is form
One time to the next time
That is all it is
Try to be a good person
Be kind to others
Show others the love that Jesus showed
I just want a good friend is all
That would be nice
Someone to share my life with
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
There is a boy in the library, ignoring the crazy lady talking through the window.
I feel like telling him she is nice. And probably not half as crazy as the librarians in this town. She has 2 children. They live in Greece. And when she cries, her dogs hide under the deck.
But he probably doesn't speak English.
Hardly any of these people sitting on their backpacks at the library do. And even if he did, he wouldn't listen.
He is reading. Its a good book. I know its a good book. I've read it. Now I feeling like telling him to leave.
He should not read it here, underneath the colour wallpaper. He needs to find a corner of a beach, so he doesn't have to cry in public. And he has to cry, because if he doesn't, I know the crying will happen inside. And his eyes will turn a shade darker with the smoke of their deaths, and his muscles will strain to rip from his ridiculously alive tendons. His eyes are already black, and I do not think he can afford to find more darkness.
Not that I would know.
He might pick cherries for a living and flirt with a trailer park attendant called Fiona is his spare time.
But I have a smell for the scared and enclosed people here. I can see the kracken hunters and the faerie kissers. They show themselves to me accidentally and I turn watch them destroy their dreams.
People ask me why I am cold all the time. They do not understand, because the boy at the library closed the book before he could cry and I knew he would be destroyed anyway
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
She died a year ago,
But so pathetic I wasn’t around during,
Her funeral,
Air would have protested against my loud dirge,
There would have been series of enjambment
In the stanzas of my her elegy.
General Abas said she died in a ****** coup,
But she was too wise to be wiped out in a coup,
She was like untamed lion.
Mr George gave another account,
He said she died during an internal war,
The war against the truth,
She has been from truth,
Too blind to see reality,
Fast asleep to be woken up.
The family doctor said she was poisoned,
Poisoned with the truth,
The truth that kills rather to set free.
Inspector James said she was sniped
From a fair perimeter.
The mortuary attendant said they
Heared movement,
Guess she was just try to raise up.
Today I arrive with nothing to feed my eye,
A little bit nostalgic,
I had the feeling that I belong here but not to death,
So I left for the yard, at the backyard,
I couldn’t belive what I saw on her gravestone,
“Nigeria a country, not a nation”
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Indulgent muse! my grov’ling mind inspire,
And fill my ***** with celestial fire.
See from Jamaica’s fervid shore she moves,
Like the fair mother of the blooming loves,
When from above the Goddess with her hand
Fans the soft breeze, and lights upon the land;
Thus she on Neptune’s wat’ry realm reclin’d
Appear’d, and thus invites the ling’ring wind.
“Arise, ye winds, America explore,
“Waft me, ye gales, from this malignant shore;
“The Northern milder climes I long to greet,
“There hope that health will my arrival meet.”
Soon as she spoke in my ideal view
The winds assented, and the vessel flew.
Madam, your spouse bereft of wife and son,
In the grove’s dark recesses pours his moan;
Each branch, wide-spreading to the ambient sky,
Forgets its verdure, and submits to die.
From thence I turn, and leave the sultry plain,
And swift pursue thy passage o’er the main:
The ship arrives before the fav’ring wind,
And makes the Philadelphian port assign’d,
Thence I attend you to Bostonia’s arms,
Where gen’rous friendship ev’ry ***** warms:
Thrice welcome here! may health revive again,
Bloom on thy cheek, and bound in ev’ry vein!
Then back return to gladden ev’ry heart,
And give your spouse his soul’s far dearer part,
Receiv’d again with what a sweet surprise,
The tear in transport starting from his eyes!
While his attendant son with blooming grace
Springs to his father’s ever dear embrace.
With shouts of joy Jamaica’s rocks resound,
With shouts of joy the country rings around.
2.3k
High beyond the thick wall a tower shines with sunset
Where peach and plum are blooming and the willowcotton flies.
You have heard in your office the court-bell of twilight;
Birds find perches, officials head for home.
Your morning-jade will ****** as you thread the golden palace;
You will bring the word of Heaven from the closing gates at night.
And I should serve there with you; but being full of years,
I have taken off official robes and am resting from my troubles.
2.2k
Movie ticket,
cinema stub,
two halves torn apart
by the fickle fingers of the screen attendant:
he looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a handbook compiled by the words of some corporate type,
who dislikes his job, you can tell from his vibe.
“The receipt's in the bag”,
I requested it to be in my hand,
customer service fingers are always painted a day-glow green,
hideous talons of the fake queen,
traced from the princesses of the TV-silver-shitty-fake-TV screen:
she looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a magazine of ink,
nothing more than lies disguised within the wholesome typography imprint.
Carrying nothing but a wallet,
“would you like a bag sir?”
I am carrying nothing but a wallet, of course I would like a bag,
what do you take me for:
she looked up at me with a smile-
Wait.
Her intriguing trapdoor smile concealed
perfectly straight teeth that,
through the gap in her mouth,
spat out the shop floor script,
as if a Shakespearean soliloquy
equipped for the stage,
not this retail trade.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
The front page news hit home!
Thirteen dead in a gambling pen...
A dead bell hounds those
rain soaked back streets
bullits smash soot blind windows
and the smell of blood makes you sick...
White light of the camera eye
spinning red globes
An attendant shacks his head"How do you rationalize this mess"
"Just bag up the rest"
A child whimpers.
"Hush, Little flower,
it is just death's long shadow
way down in Chinatown."
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC
From Chicago to Atlanta on the 5:45
I contemplate the fragility of being alive
I sit on the wing with a view of great breadth
While I dream about life and wonder of death
The sun has just set, the moon kisses the sky
And the atmosphere echoes its exhaling sigh
As darkness sets in, the graduation emerges
So I, in the sky, view its majesty in surges
The window is a frame of the moon as a crescent
And I spot a town way down, like a queen to her peasant
There is life, there is motion, there is somewhere to be
There is conflict, there are problems, and then there is me
I snap out of passivity like a casual thought
To locate the flight attendant complementary cart
Since her mobile vending machine is a couple rows down
I return to pensivity and stare at the ground
The tail lights of cars pulse when my true focus starts
As if they were red blood cells exiting the heart
There is a conversation I over hear from 27 E
The girl has dreams of studying alone in Italy
The man has a daughter and he rocks in his seat
They talk like old friends even though they just meet
There are young men in the Navy, and business folks
There is an air of community, peanuts, and hope
As my ears pop constantly and we climb higher
I think of my future and to what I aspire
And I wonder if there's anyone I'll see here again
Close and far away strangers, a view from a plane
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
"Fashioned out of Bits and Pieces of Clay "~ Proclaimed the sign ! In fact, the sign was surrounded with Neon lights and measured 35' by 80', sitting so firmly supported above the entrance door to the Store of Stores~ named ~ "STORE OF PLEASURES AND DELIGHT " { Members~simply referred to this Giant as " P L E A S U R E S " . The Parking lot was full with 52,000 vehicles at 5;30AM~ and the store would open at 6;00 AM 'SHARP". The people were already in line~ to select and choose the finest of what the store had to offer. OH,,or even "OMG" the Pleasure to be had at "PLEASURES" ! ! Choice after choice of Bits and Pieces of Clay' Was what the Crowds were clamoring for~ in Their shopping Frenzy ! No where on Earth could such sweet Delicasies~ such as these could be found. NO SIR~ when it came to the very best CHOICE of items "Fashioned out of Bits and Pieces of Clay ", ONE simply couldn't shop anywhere else~ ONLY~ at " P L E A S U R E S ". Big, Small, Bright and Dull, color after Color, shape after Shape, Long and Narrow, Tall and Short, Broad and Narrow~ Every possible CONCOCTION of Man's imagination~Was offered up for sale and consumption. THAT... was was the Speciality of " P L E A S U R E S "~ Whatever was presented from the Mind of Man~ WAS fashioned out of Bits and Pieces of clay at " P L E A S U R E S "~ From dreams and wild thinking* These were the things offered up for SALE ! ! From Weird to Plain, From Gawdy to Drab, from Elegant to Simple, from Bizarre to Mundane... YES.. Man's Mind when allowed to "Roam-Free'~ would fill the shelves of each Aisle~ Freely Roam the store~ Click in your selection of those Precious Items of " Bits and Pieces of Clay"~. Click Approval and PAY...wave thanks to "P L E A S UR E S " as you Leave. Your selections and an Attendant~ will be waiting at your vehicle~with "YOUR-SELECTION". **PLEASE VISIT US AGAIN SOON.......for your choices of "BITS and PIECES OF CLAY...."
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
There's a rainbow in the corner of my window
it must be saying something.
The clouds are gay! The lakes are gay!
The trees are gay! The airplane is gay!
The flight attendant is gay!
Houses hidden in the hills below look up
and wonder if I'm gay too.
The sun hiding at the edge of a cloud
tells me the ocean's gay didn't we know?
She has a fluid sexuality and loses her
temper sometimes we call it flooding.
The sky declared itself androgynous
and changes genders every twelve hours.
The sunset is proudly bisexual
and displays both pink and blue every evening
as it heads to the club and the sky switches genders.
The city of San Francisco is gay!
and the rainbow disappears.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:50 AM UTC
Now there is a thing called
"left and right side brain" dominance
Left side being an organized filter of OCD,
And the right side being very scattered and street smart
But I am 100% completely 50% of each side of the brain exactly
with certain times in my life
I am very OCD
hence the perfect placement of the bubble open the sheet of bubble rap
But with life,
I want to be an event planner,
lawyer,
book writer,
airplane attendant,
anything special
hence the way this bubble wrap has many uses
I do take it as my purpose in life to protect and care for others
So throw me around,
put me in a box,
step on me,
wether im here for your amusement or for comforting reasons,
I'll take great pride in being used by you
For that is how my anxiety has consumed me
I. Am. Bubble wrap.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
1.7k
"For I am he that sways in multitudes,
The Ur-reader believing faithfully;
With words beneath my starry fingernails,
And arms attendant to the mescaline sky.
Forced blue and always empty to the face,
Blue hands against the million-houred nights.
Not blue by name but in a walking breath
Beneath the curse and cry of glinting day.
But praying's pointless anyway now that
The Seven Hands that turn the Sky have moved;
And walking with the moon can't turn me on,
Because I end up doing all the work."
There's not a ********* thing that you can do
When all the forest's trying to keep you still.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 8:04 PM UTC
over the shoulder squeals
giggles atop great grandma's quilt
from under the tree
that we have all hit our heads on
way up in the field
screaming up in to the sky
NO POCKET KITE
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!
diving a dipping
then crashing
youre no trick kite!
nothing but a dollar store impulse buy
ill *** you up and stuff you back
into the belt-clippable makeshift container
the one you shamefully came in
curse you and your inadequately short string
maybe she'll have you
return you to your designers glory
not i
oh but you
i see you
soaring
string waaaay to far out
dangling above the trees
and power lines to boot
aloft at least 100 meters up
today you soared
mathew perry shoot
thats what im going to call you
parachute in a bag
to heights i could never achieve
standing in the sand
waves crashing against phalanges
in those years
over a decade back now
and you
and your potential joy provided
collected dust
in that same place that i left you
all those years ago
but i had to call the dog back up
"TESS DOG, HEEL!"
and i had to wipe the quinoa of my hands
and roll up your string
she had to stop smiling at some point
your stewardess or should i say flight attendant
smiling, no loving.
or staying.
kissing.
oh lets stay here!
in the field
atop the blossoms of berries
yet ripened
smiling
"pulling and running!!!"
under the shade tree
on a blanket
holding hands
give me thirty days though
i have some things to work out
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I hear the clock pendulum swing, your heart stings and I feel my stomach in my throat.
I was your best friend, you were my homie, the walls of trust are crumbling, how do I cope?
“There’s no excuse!” I say, but of course, you know.
You know I wish that I could take it back and I wish you would look back.
You can’t, your plane is boarding, You’re leaving. “This is the final boarding call for Flight 1089.” says the gate attendant. You open your phone, find my name and begin to write me a text, you pause, you stop your habit. It’s time for something new. We’ve tried our time has come and gone.
I’m looking at my phone, praying for a text. It never comes, it’s late, I turn on the shower. The past is forever in eternity, but I’m scrubbing my body as if I can wash it all away, as If I can be clean of the past. Free from it. But the memory is fresh and a fresh canvas is best.
A Betrayal, Soap & A Plane Ticket
Prompt 63
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 10:14 PM UTC
My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)
But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly
Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,
Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit
It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge
Down to the river
To become another corpse.
————————————————————
It could be me,
Along with my dream,
Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down
Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive
Through the noise
Of shuddering trains
And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.
It could be me
Trying to perceive
Underneath music
The underneath voice that says
'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'
————————————————————
I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him
Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.
And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts
Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords
Carried at night
Across the city lights
Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun
And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.
I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight
And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.
————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent
For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,
Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide
That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.
————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,
In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.
Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.
Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays
Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.
And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Oh I'm going to Japan
All according to plan
Trapped in this little plane
Going a little insane
Staring out the window
Seeing the wind blow
The clouds look odd
And I'm a little awed
Miles above the ground
And there's not a sound
Save that one snoring man
That screaming child, whose name I gather is Stan
And that one obsessive compulsive flight attendant
Who I think is dependent
On those little pink pills that keep appearing in her hand
But its fine, its alright, I'm going to Japan.
Land of the rising sun
Here I come, even if I'm the only one
Getting off this accursed sardine can.
At least I'll be arrested in Japan.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
Rick is such an unfortunate name
it's like ICK with a little extra ERR
Imagine a flight attendant
his name is Rrrick
he's offering you chicken or beef
take your ******* pick what's it gonna be
what's taking you so long
CHICKEN????????!!!!!!!
or *******
BEEF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????
he walks away with his tight *** pants
hugging his nasty **** ****
you know he needs to plug it
and you know every time he rips a rotten one
he's squirtin out some ky jelly
into his briefs
yeah that's pretty disgusting
so disgusting in fact i may be driven
to induce vomiting
what you say: **** I MISS YOU"
what you mean: **** i wish i could date rick and **** you all at the same time"
what you say: "is it bad to have rick and still can't wait to get home and jack off?"
what you mean: "his *** is as loose as a cannon, i regret choosing his *** over yours."
what you say: "I need someone more on my level."
what you mean: "hes willing to **** at any given second of the day.. you were too much of a **** hassle."
what you say: "Still trying to find where all the YOUNG, WHITE bois hide"
what you mean: "Hi I'm still old, fat, ugly, ***** and stickin it in a flight attendant who walks funnier than I do!"
WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SAY WHAT YOU ******* MEAN
WHAT's IT GONNA BE
CHICKEN OR BEEF !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BUT WHAT IF IM A VEGAN
well then you're stuck with the ******* chicken
.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC