Stinking’ Lincoln with a Point on a Road, you fretful frantic CHOAD, with a goat in a moat around the castle, I don’t want anything touching my asshole, with a whiff of a pitch, not even a bitch, on the Everglades where I raced Mr. Sage at my younger age- of years past when my get-go lingo didn’t last, out your ass, up the waddle-doo, this sing-song is all for used!

You too, all used up with a flip-flup star-studded but suddenly the Southern Sun comes in on a whim of the local agent in a tangent- so tangled up with Tantric lusts of many countless THRUSTS of the bursting result of it, so now what?

You know, I don’t know about you and your funny business amassing massive amounts of Cold. Hard. Cash. In the banks I’ve set up “trading” stocks with geese and geezers meandering in flocks of fucks with all of the Lucky Charms in the serial bowl, like a weed-pipe so don’t gripe!

Gripping the nation with company stationary of the Great ECM Plastics, Inc. of my Dad who’s hardly bad in what he does, calling up the Fuzz, with a funny feeling about me so dear to him, all a whim of a Son so valuable, as in vintage comic books, that the waitress gives me “looks” like the strip-tease stripper reeling in a Striper with a candy-pole in the Northeast region at any season, with Ginger spice in the life of a True Day Player harping goodness for Misses Gracious the granny with her old fat fanny, reminding me of Mannie and her buns, she’s one of my “huns” like Playboy Bunnies in the meadow with T. Winslow, but faster than light cigars which take me very far, to the depths of my lungs, swinging a bat at that rat-tat-tat, but no tattoos, no booze, no rampant sex in a hexadecimal wrench to dig a deep, deep trench to the rear of an outside bench, but minus the pressing with the choice female caressing my worn-out shoulders with 25 lbs. weights, when I don’t wait, at this very DATE, missing the kissing, fondling, and kisses when we’re eff-ing- me on you within and without a single sin, our camaraderie,

For is what to be — my sweetie and sweaty hun, fondling her buns with a sentimental slap to her booty, the stolen wealth as per the Pirate ship, but I broke my left hip into 7 pieces, the doctors worked with greases, and Botox in my legs, me I begs, Mom and Dad- I don’t want to be sad, ever, through unanimous thoughts of ne’ering being bad, so sad, no friends, making my money last to long ends, my stretching my legs, they bend, when I “walk the walk” and “talking the talk” when Mom would write on the board, at the front of the class, getting ass, with a single piece of chalk — needing moisturizer on the fingers, sticking up the middle one to “The Man” and maybe Dan, but only if he dumped my 250 Bitcoins, my legal “tender” loins and my groin, blanking boozies of my choosing, taking my loins, to the Lions at the king of the jungle, writing chat in the Bungle, and eating crispy crickets so crumbly crumbs, I mumble in words when I speak — every day of the week — occasionally taking a break, with my taking down swallowing a protein shake, I shake, fearing a Grande Mal seizure, I call this my leisure, and wishing my readers unanimous pleasure, while unearthing a golden treasure of 250 Bitcoins!