"gourmand" poems - Hello Poetry

793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breast For His Shy House— And baffles quest— Grief is a Thief—quick startled— ****** His Ear—report to hear Of that Vast Dark— That swept His Being—back— Grief is a Juggler—boldest at the Play— Lest if He flinch—the eye that way Pounce on His Bruises—One—say—or Three— Grief is a Gourmand—spare His luxury— Best Grief is Tongueless—before He’ll tell— Burn Him in the Public Square— His Ashes—will Possibly—if they refuse—How then know— Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable—now.

0

2.4k

Emily Dickinson

Grief is a Mouse

793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breast For His Shy House— And baffles quest— Grief is a Thief—quick startled— ****** His Ear—report to hear Of that Vast Dark— That swept His Being—back— Grief is a Juggler—boldest at the Play— Lest if He flinch—the eye that way Pounce on His Bruises—One—say—or Three— Grief is a Gourmand—spare His luxury— Best Grief is Tongueless—before He’ll tell— Burn Him in the Public Square— His Ashes—will Possibly—if they refuse—How then know— Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable—now.

18

Laughter < > the balm of the soul Loving touch < > inner vision for the 'mole' Imagination < > the flame nascent within the coal Evolving into my true self < > the goal The life gourmand's avarice < > my dangerous shoal I think of my Dad tonight, & his paperweight of coal I remember his impregnable wonder, and I start to again feel whole Imagination < > the flame nascent within the dark coal

0

May 14, 2015

May 14, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC

chrystos-minot

Dad's Love, Dad's Coal

Laughter < > the balm of the soul Loving touch < > inner vision for the 'mole' Imagination < > the flame nascent within the coal Evolving into my true self < > the goal The life gourmand's avarice < > my dangerous shoal I think of my Dad tonight, & his paperweight of coal I remember his impregnable wonder, and I start to again feel whole Imagination < > the flame nascent within the dark coal

8

~inspired by a poem and messages from fellow poets ~ who have ridden beside me here, for a decade plus, SE Reimer, & Sally Bayan~ **we take our meds, vitamins and supplements routinely, faithfully and with a big smile of self-bemusement at all the times I mocked those sillys who believed that hu man can override his prescribed sentencing record almost every morsel that passes through my portals, reporting quantity and quality to remind me of my human needs, but more to gauge my wearing weaknesses, and make confession of my sins of gourmand commission and despite this and more, regular checkups, and blah blah blah, No Lies told here, the aging days are upon us, my brow furrowed by a lengthening To Do list, that is endlessly refurbished with more additions than subtractions, ergo, the list grows longer as fast as the days remaining, grow shorter, ever faster! no kidding myself, you feel (really) the cells slowing their recovery, their fading fastness in every little thing, we squint where we used to go without trepidation, we twist and turn to musical utterances and undertones that are groans and laughter at the old carcass’s refreshing harmonic epiphany of time’s passage and think well, I’ll do that tomorrow, handle that later, deal with that problem surely eventually, and the only thing that is attended to almost instantly, is writing here, last gasp observations, that my being demands be issued now! in time beating to my slowing heart rate, or factually, my rapidly rising rate, each a contradictory economic indicator of the same, singular portending trend so here I am ribbing and scribbling myself before you, prompted by a gorgeously written poem by my friend (1) and the departure of another to a faraway land where they live, my failure to meet, a shameful delay by an old man’s cautious fear, that should not be abided… is this a poem, a cri de coeur, a confession - something of all three, but it is done, breaths and words rapidly expelled, and for once. I feel like I have, once, now, gambled against time, and actually won

0

Dec 8, 2024

Dec 8, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Getting to old to gamble on time

~inspired by a poem and messages from fellow poets ~ who have ridden beside me here, for a decade plus, SE Reimer, & Sally Bayan~ **we take our meds, vitamins and supplements routinely, faithfully and with a big smile of self-bemusement at all the times I mocked those sillys who believed that hu man can override his prescribed sentencing record almost every morsel that passes through my portals, reporting quantity and quality to remind me of my human needs, but more to gauge my wearing weaknesses, and make confession of my sins of gourmand commission and despite this and more, regular checkups, and blah blah blah, No Lies told here, the aging days are upon us, my brow furrowed by a lengthening To Do list, that is endlessly refurbished with more additions than subtractions, ergo, the list grows longer as fast as the days remaining, grow shorter, ever faster! no kidding myself, you feel (really) the cells slowing their recovery, their fading fastness in every little thing, we squint where we used to go without trepidation, we twist and turn to musical utterances and undertones that are groans and laughter at the old carcass’s refreshing harmonic epiphany of time’s passage and think well, I’ll do that tomorrow, handle that later, deal with that problem surely eventually, and the only thing that is attended to almost instantly, is writing here, last gasp observations, that my being demands be issued now! in time beating to my slowing heart rate, or factually, my rapidly rising rate, each a contradictory economic indicator of the same, singular portending trend so here I am ribbing and scribbling myself before you, prompted by a gorgeously written poem by my friend (1) and the departure of another to a faraway land where they live, my failure to meet, a shameful delay by an old man’s cautious fear, that should not be abided… is this a poem, a cri de coeur, a confession - something of all three, but it is done, breaths and words rapidly expelled, and for once. I feel like I have, once, now, gambled against time, and actually won

57

His lips are projecting an inviting scent A promise, sweet desires will be sent. A sticky honeycomb with every lock Exciting the serotonin, a paused clock. My fingers are dripping with syrupy seduction As he envelopes me in warm abduction. Without sight, I smell the tobacco leaves falling Stroking my skin as I begin calling. He feeds my Shakti like a deity, crowned And sugared fantasies are finally found.

0

Feb 8, 2019

Feb 8, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC

EleniC

Gourmand

His lips are projecting an inviting scent A promise, sweet desires will be sent. A sticky honeycomb with every lock Exciting the serotonin, a paused clock. My fingers are dripping with syrupy seduction As he envelopes me in warm abduction. Without sight, I smell the tobacco leaves falling Stroking my skin as I begin calling. He feeds my Shakti like a deity, crowned And sugared fantasies are finally found.

10

You talk trash like a doorman, who treats others like doormats, thinking you have that right, cause, you fired first! did you get lost on your way to a poetry slam, and so you have no where to compete? as self appointed (shr)editor, you stir the *** and leave the room, leaving your P.I.E.D. in plain sight, just waiting for it to go off. do you unto others as you would have do unto you, somehow you forgot it is true, and I am sorry, but no worry, I have even liked some of your real poetry, What Was I Thinking?, Observe life and report in rhyme or prose, But rhyme with hurtful slime, uglier than my ugliest of toes, might be poetry but stirs woe in me, dress it up in classic forms, who let you create a standard of norms? take us on fanciful journeys, tell us of loves lost and loves won, but instead you load your keyboard with angry words, waiting for the sound you like, the sound of your own voice, PULL! to achieve release... who died and left you in charge, or are you sitting sad and alone, on one of the google barges? cute trick to hide in hash tags, not very original, gotta hand it to you,............................................... you are the best dressed word bully around. linguistically pure, of that I am sure, for no human, would c\ut a/nother's .............................artistic creation down, unless perfection was in the D.N.A. what did the others word- hunters go on vacation and you got stuck taking turns? What a way to waste a holiday? So be a good gourmand, and get back to excessive feasting, on food, and not people's works. KTWK

0

Dec 29, 2014

Dec 29, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

something i threw together before i threw up

You talk trash like a doorman, who treats others like doormats, thinking you have that right, cause, you fired first! did you get lost on your way to a poetry slam, and so you have no where to compete? as self appointed (shr)editor, you stir the *** and leave the room, leaving your P.I.E.D. in plain sight, just waiting for it to go off. do you unto others as you would have do unto you, somehow you forgot it is true, and I am sorry, but no worry, I have even liked some of your real poetry, What Was I Thinking?, Observe life and report in rhyme or prose, But rhyme with hurtful slime, uglier than my ugliest of toes, might be poetry but stirs woe in me, dress it up in classic forms, who let you create a standard of norms? take us on fanciful journeys, tell us of loves lost and loves won, but instead you load your keyboard with angry words, waiting for the sound you like, the sound of your own voice, PULL! to achieve release... who died and left you in charge, or are you sitting sad and alone, on one of the google barges? cute trick to hide in hash tags, not very original, gotta hand it to you,............................................... you are the best dressed word bully around. linguistically pure, of that I am sure, for no human, would c\ut a/nother's .............................artistic creation down, unless perfection was in the D.N.A. what did the others word- hunters go on vacation and you got stuck taking turns? What a way to waste a holiday? So be a good gourmand, and get back to excessive feasting, on food, and not people's works. KTWK

47

If my cat could open the front door, A lion he would be, roaming his savanah, stalking prey If my cat could speak, The words of wisdom would pour from his jaw, sage advice and secrets galore. If my cat could open the fridge door. He would in heaven be, a gourmand in a tatty fur coat. If my cat could empty his own litter box ..... I would be ever so grateful, ever, ever so grateful.

0

May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC

betterdays

If.

If my cat could open the front door, A lion he would be, roaming his savanah, stalking prey If my cat could speak, The words of wisdom would pour from his jaw, sage advice and secrets galore. If my cat could open the fridge door. He would in heaven be, a gourmand in a tatty fur coat. If my cat could empty his own litter box ..... I would be ever so grateful, ever, ever so grateful.

10

Following his nose— Fox slinks in humble repose, . . . Wild goose is cooked.

0

Sep 19, 2013

Sep 19, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC

ormond

Haiku (gourmand)

Following his nose— Fox slinks in humble repose, . . . Wild goose is cooked.

3

She's a scientist She don't look back She's really a 🍕 gourmand, but genetically, Gourmet is where she's at She loves being a statistician, Calories count per pizza slice (scientifically, toppings atoms don't matter) A-good theorem excites, Especially epically, when she disproves it in tour face Knows a lot of big words, That nobody else understood (but flaunting feels good) She's an artist, And a poet, always looking forward (chasing sunrises) She gets overloaded with advice, So knows how, to give it back (but only tidbit sized) She knows the world is flat, When running, she really likes that! unlike me, i'll quit when out of stuff, but a woman, well. that's-he, be, something else

0

Aug 15, 2025

Aug 15, 2025 at 4:43 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

She knows too many big words (thanatophobia)

She's a scientist She don't look back She's really a 🍕 gourmand, but genetically, Gourmet is where she's at She loves being a statistician, Calories count per pizza slice (scientifically, toppings atoms don't matter) A-good theorem excites, Especially epically, when she disproves it in tour face Knows a lot of big words, That nobody else understood (but flaunting feels good) She's an artist, And a poet, always looking forward (chasing sunrises) She gets overloaded with advice, So knows how, to give it back (but only tidbit sized) She knows the world is flat, When running, she really likes that! unlike me, i'll quit when out of stuff, but a woman, well. that's-he, be, something else

28

::::::Just a Poem:::::: The world will end The Earth will bend Waters will get thirsty Ants will grow hefty The sun will melt No pain will be felt The clouds will usurp the sky Fishes will walk and fly Trees will run and walk Flowers will sing and talk Animals will become wise As with great heat the Moon will arise Rivers will flow out from earth Water will be the measuring unit of wealth Stories will not be told Not when old senile grasses will bear forth gold And mountains will be heaved by valiant men As they bore forth silvers and diamonds vomiting children Famers will plant Crimson stones and harvest rubies Ripping their husbands apart, and searching for crystals, would be feminine hobbies Lions will be used for transportation, since their claws will turn wheels Crocodiles will evacuate their aquatic tenements and head for the hills After losing their flight, birds will trek to volcanic regions for recreation As venoms of snakes will be used for mummification Just when planetary bodies muss up after drinking muscatel And Comets will go wiggling the Universe searching for Meteors to tell Asteroids will be **** women Visiting Earth on intervals to eat the luscious renascent three-legged men Children will converged forging a bulwark with each fiery horn Ones fixed by a one-tooth worm just about the time they were born This is a gory war; it will commence when a star will fall Exactly when vim-less monkeys will bellow a rehearsed rodomontade in the butchery hall As venerated corpses of Rats receive posthumous worship Those villains were holy miscreants, who sent many to death-sleep Their posterities are honored; infamous miscreated Rats, with flagrant mien But as foretold by the corpulent Prophets, shortened will be the tyrannous Gopheric reign For they will be swallowed by gigantic-goliath gourmand Hippopotamuses Their description are ineffable to words, they are of enormous sizes And aeons from now those gourmets will swallow the earth! And oh! Unreal it will all seem Because you think this screed is just a Poem! Composed by SirKelvin Poem 99, ©SirKel 2016

0

Mar 17, 2018

Mar 17, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC

SirKelvin

Just A Poem

::::::Just a Poem:::::: The world will end The Earth will bend Waters will get thirsty Ants will grow hefty The sun will melt No pain will be felt The clouds will usurp the sky Fishes will walk and fly Trees will run and walk Flowers will sing and talk Animals will become wise As with great heat the Moon will arise Rivers will flow out from earth Water will be the measuring unit of wealth Stories will not be told Not when old senile grasses will bear forth gold And mountains will be heaved by valiant men As they bore forth silvers and diamonds vomiting children Famers will plant Crimson stones and harvest rubies Ripping their husbands apart, and searching for crystals, would be feminine hobbies Lions will be used for transportation, since their claws will turn wheels Crocodiles will evacuate their aquatic tenements and head for the hills After losing their flight, birds will trek to volcanic regions for recreation As venoms of snakes will be used for mummification Just when planetary bodies muss up after drinking muscatel And Comets will go wiggling the Universe searching for Meteors to tell Asteroids will be **** women Visiting Earth on intervals to eat the luscious renascent three-legged men Children will converged forging a bulwark with each fiery horn Ones fixed by a one-tooth worm just about the time they were born This is a gory war; it will commence when a star will fall Exactly when vim-less monkeys will bellow a rehearsed rodomontade in the butchery hall As venerated corpses of Rats receive posthumous worship Those villains were holy miscreants, who sent many to death-sleep Their posterities are honored; infamous miscreated Rats, with flagrant mien But as foretold by the corpulent Prophets, shortened will be the tyrannous Gopheric reign For they will be swallowed by gigantic-goliath gourmand Hippopotamuses Their description are ineffable to words, they are of enormous sizes And aeons from now those gourmets will swallow the earth! And oh! Unreal it will all seem Because you think this screed is just a Poem! Composed by SirKelvin Poem 99, ©SirKel 2016

43

(for Jim Harrison) poetry is no great solace alone in my montana cabin with my faithful hunting dogs who still don't know me by name a bottle of 1976 Chateau Mouton Bordeaux at my left elbow a meal fit for a gourmand prince set before me my back blisters in mutant patterns of unease there is no sun to burn them away outside a three-day blow rattles the hinges a razor sharp mountain trembles the wind yearns for my undoing i have unraveled my medicine bag beads of healing scatter across the floor one more manuscript blossoms is the desiccated orchard my heart gives way slumped over my ancient typewriter i fail to complete the final phrase

0

May 29, 2019

May 29, 2019 at 9:36 PM UTC

arliced

Finale

(for Jim Harrison) poetry is no great solace alone in my montana cabin with my faithful hunting dogs who still don't know me by name a bottle of 1976 Chateau Mouton Bordeaux at my left elbow a meal fit for a gourmand prince set before me my back blisters in mutant patterns of unease there is no sun to burn them away outside a three-day blow rattles the hinges a razor sharp mountain trembles the wind yearns for my undoing i have unraveled my medicine bag beads of healing scatter across the floor one more manuscript blossoms is the desiccated orchard my heart gives way slumped over my ancient typewriter i fail to complete the final phrase

22

Comment voulez-vous que je vous croque, marquise, Votre Seigneurie de haute voltige ? Comment voulez-vous que votre amant cunnibale croque L'exquis vertige que son pinceau déflagre Quand de sa tige délicate et poetique Il esquisse sur la toile le portrait de votre boutique arrière ? Dans le tableau vous posez élégamment nue Le postérieur au premier plan Et un sucrier à fal jaune Qui sent le vent de gingembre Et la mer de noix de muscade Becquette d'un regard gourmand le cul corossol Que vous lui offrez avec langueur et nonchalance. L'analyse infra rouge de ce charmant spectacle Révèle cependant que l'artiste au fin bec En vous a semé ses regrets Car sous ce derrière plantureux de Dame corossol Un essaim d'abeilles invisible à l'Œil nu bourdonne Et l'oiseau a laissé pour tout aiguillon tendre À la mine d'argent l'empreinte double de ses pattes Comme d'amoureuses morsures Dans le sable mouvant de vos lunes rebondies.

0

Nov 4, 2019

Nov 4, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC

cyclone-wolfok-baltimore

La dame corossol

Comment voulez-vous que je vous croque, marquise, Votre Seigneurie de haute voltige ? Comment voulez-vous que votre amant cunnibale croque L'exquis vertige que son pinceau déflagre Quand de sa tige délicate et poetique Il esquisse sur la toile le portrait de votre boutique arrière ? Dans le tableau vous posez élégamment nue Le postérieur au premier plan Et un sucrier à fal jaune Qui sent le vent de gingembre Et la mer de noix de muscade Becquette d'un regard gourmand le cul corossol Que vous lui offrez avec langueur et nonchalance. L'analyse infra rouge de ce charmant spectacle Révèle cependant que l'artiste au fin bec En vous a semé ses regrets Car sous ce derrière plantureux de Dame corossol Un essaim d'abeilles invisible à l'Œil nu bourdonne Et l'oiseau a laissé pour tout aiguillon tendre À la mine d'argent l'empreinte double de ses pattes Comme d'amoureuses morsures Dans le sable mouvant de vos lunes rebondies.

22

Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords, Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille, Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts, Comme du chêne la chenille ? Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords ? Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane, Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi, Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane, Patient comme la fourmi ? Dans quel philtre ? - dans quel vin ? - dans quelle tisane ? Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais, A cet esprit comblé d'angoisse Et pareil au mourant qu'écrasent les blessés, Que le sabot du cheval froisse, Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais, A cet agonisant que le loup déjà flaire Et que surveille le corbeau, A ce soldat brisé ! s'il faut qu'il désespère D'avoir sa croix et son tombeau ; Ce pauvre agonisant que déjà le loup flaire ! Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ? Peut-on déchirer des ténèbres Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir, Sans astres, sans éclairs funèbres ? Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ? L'Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge Est soufflée, est morte à jamais ! Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver où l'on héberge Les martyrs d'un chemin mauvais ! Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l'Auberge ! Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ? Dis, connais-tu l'irrémissible ? Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés, A qui notre coeur sert de cible ? Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ? L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite Notre âme, piteux monument, Et souvent il attaque, ainsi que le termite, Par la base le bâtiment. L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite ! - J'ai vu parfois, au fond d'un théâtre banal Qu'enflammait l'orchestre sonore, Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal Une miraculeuse aurore ; J'ai vu parfois au fond d'un théâtre banal Un être, qui n'était que lumière, or et gaze, Terrasser l'énorme Satan ; Mais mon coeur, que jamais ne visite l'extase, Est un théâtre où l'on attend Toujours, toujours en vain, l'Être aux ailes de gaze !

0

350

Charles Baudelaire

L'irréparable

Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords, Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille, Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts, Comme du chêne la chenille ? Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords ? Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane, Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi, Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane, Patient comme la fourmi ? Dans quel philtre ? - dans quel vin ? - dans quelle tisane ? Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais, A cet esprit comblé d'angoisse Et pareil au mourant qu'écrasent les blessés, Que le sabot du cheval froisse, Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh ! dis, si tu le sais, A cet agonisant que le loup déjà flaire Et que surveille le corbeau, A ce soldat brisé ! s'il faut qu'il désespère D'avoir sa croix et son tombeau ; Ce pauvre agonisant que déjà le loup flaire ! Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ? Peut-on déchirer des ténèbres Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir, Sans astres, sans éclairs funèbres ? Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir ? L'Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge Est soufflée, est morte à jamais ! Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver où l'on héberge Les martyrs d'un chemin mauvais ! Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l'Auberge ! Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ? Dis, connais-tu l'irrémissible ? Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés, A qui notre coeur sert de cible ? Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés ? L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite Notre âme, piteux monument, Et souvent il attaque, ainsi que le termite, Par la base le bâtiment. L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite ! - J'ai vu parfois, au fond d'un théâtre banal Qu'enflammait l'orchestre sonore, Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal Une miraculeuse aurore ; J'ai vu parfois au fond d'un théâtre banal Un être, qui n'était que lumière, or et gaze, Terrasser l'énorme Satan ; Mais mon coeur, que jamais ne visite l'extase, Est un théâtre où l'on attend Toujours, toujours en vain, l'Être aux ailes de gaze !

50

I loathe shucking clothes, (no matter eyes severely myopic) in preparation for here goes another warm shower quickly relaxing this senescent body ready to doze soon after lathering this blubbery body most unwanted fat grows on me, no matter healthy diet of worms, or how I stand, not so easy add a pose zing losing battle – Mary Jo's if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering particularly quiverly, sans white "WALL" tire tread fully goes steely belted around lower abdominal area like lava floes siring unsightly expose yore squishy Jew dish priestly punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly... pillow like marshmallows fittingly, rotundly soundly identical with other schlep tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos, this lap ****** lard (lord) Who Lee bemoaning, how ilk readily knows, where unwanted bulky flab... most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige, know bull eats obese, anorexia nervosa or chance barking out orders reminiscent, when he hapt tubby a caller at weekly square and/or contra dance, now requisitioned to insulate and excessively enhance body electric can be mushed into likeness of fleshy France or repurposed into expanse resembling any country, whose name Kants be easily pronounced, and historical events glommed together recognizable as Ataturk with a lance bequeathed to rule World advance sing gluttony as his divine providence, thus requires deep dish allegiance (non - fiber - binding contract) for eats and make decadent every fleshpot gourmand stretching cellular skein to capacitance bestowing guaranteed deliverance with their rolling ballooning massive circumference into orbit with Earthly moon officiant eternal fondue irrelevance!

0

Mar 4, 2019

Mar 4, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

A Former Slender Man Deplores Weight Gain

I loathe shucking clothes, (no matter eyes severely myopic) in preparation for here goes another warm shower quickly relaxing this senescent body ready to doze soon after lathering this blubbery body most unwanted fat grows on me, no matter healthy diet of worms, or how I stand, not so easy add a pose zing losing battle – Mary Jo's if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering particularly quiverly, sans white "WALL" tire tread fully goes steely belted around lower abdominal area like lava floes siring unsightly expose yore squishy Jew dish priestly punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly... pillow like marshmallows fittingly, rotundly soundly identical with other schlep tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos, this lap ****** lard (lord) Who Lee bemoaning, how ilk readily knows, where unwanted bulky flab... most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige, know bull eats obese, anorexia nervosa or chance barking out orders reminiscent, when he hapt tubby a caller at weekly square and/or contra dance, now requisitioned to insulate and excessively enhance body electric can be mushed into likeness of fleshy France or repurposed into expanse resembling any country, whose name Kants be easily pronounced, and historical events glommed together recognizable as Ataturk with a lance bequeathed to rule World advance sing gluttony as his divine providence, thus requires deep dish allegiance (non - fiber - binding contract) for eats and make decadent every fleshpot gourmand stretching cellular skein to capacitance bestowing guaranteed deliverance with their rolling ballooning massive circumference into orbit with Earthly moon officiant eternal fondue irrelevance!

57