Thirsting for Bitcoin wealth, all by myself, lied to by my investor, and many, who Elsa’s Eatery!

Munching the sweet strawberry roast, with heavily buttered toast, that most would enjoy, not succumbing to a “Ploy” of MMJ “Pot”- I have me not, now, at the many hours when I have magical writing powers, over you, the towers of Pizza negating the crusts to crunch with my teeth, that need some paste, the taste of cheese, I always say please, and thank you hunny boo, my baby Justine, not watching anything “Teen”, for I have generous general taste in age, racing Mr. Sage, in a quick Mazda, done with the slice of pizza, now so thirsty, I be where the worst be, here and away from my enemies, where I want to be, and with you my piece of poo- all gone with a swirly flush on the handle, I’m capable of pooping, never looting, like the many criminal Blacks, they attacked, the po-po’s doing their job with speeding tickets, the chirping and churning cricket-food for exotic lizards, who get “Slizzard”, bearing the winter blizzards, with Blizzak snow-tires, getting tired around 5 a.m. just nocturnal as they know knocking on my front door, when I want some more, of the Zoloft and Xanax, at the Zoo, animals used, I implore the fishing-lures to catch the underwater creatures, wearing CK briefs, more, they was out the piss stains, to daily refrain, I hate the pain, of my shattered hip, my skin they ripped, it apart, as the surgeon lets out a savory fart, painting art, and sketching sketches of girls in short dresses, at Dresser Hill and smelling manure, when girls get a manicure — for any disease distressed of the ever Holy “Bless-ings” with Ping Zing clubs at the golf course, but of course, or Spalding shafts of a 9 Iron to hit the ball so very far, 250 yards, in the Fall we rake, awaiting heated buns from the oven, over, a witch’s Haven, the negroes enslavened, and Diet Coke I’m craving, in crazy ways, like Willie Mays, hitting the baseball, I’ll take your face off, with a cheese grater, the hyper-sonic missile leaving a giant crater, in the moon, the war will come so very soon, a la Russia who’s rushing to do the stinky buzz of flushing, feeling ICU enema’s- I praise my Mom and Pa, for tending to my needs of a bee-hive, I feel alive with adrenaline, and not the peaky ants — I need no more of them, as there’re ants in my pants, wearing similar jeans, and day after day- I just want to say, to tell you all, I have gone so far, reaching beyond God, while Justine I would “prod”- her with my dick, I’m in for thin and thick, my above-average prick, the rod so THICK — the tantamount of my first ever full-body Orgasm, in Purgatory Chasm, with my trusty copy of The Qur’an, lend me your hand, Justine Aragona-Marquis, we can puff green and purple “Trees”, as I trust thee- your MMJ card so dear, so near, like mine- without wine, and kept in my wallet, I always carry Mint Chapstick in my right socket, along with a fiery lighter- my weight I love, don’t wait, not hate, being so thin, my quest of fine fitness- my own whim, with a whip to your buns, the S&M (I’ve never really done!) is just for THEM, the gays, the deviants, they want in my pants, like the Ants and decades ago antennas to pick up UHF and VHF, recorded on VHS tapes, like The Little Mermaid, WITH ARIEL’S aureolas being pinched, it was such a cinch, with an itch, she was my temporary “btch” of love and throating, let’s go Deep-Ocean Boating on the super-yacht with my Movado watch, and hugging my wrist, sometimes a Fist, first of all, I have big balls, come one, come all, this upcoming Fall on November second, I could count the minutes, of Court, I thwart, being fully clean, my left ball to be it all, taking off a blemish – I blush at the toothbrush, after that buttered toast, I write for myself, and most, who enjoy my sporadic words, when Nights had big iron Swords, and using the ’S’- word when I dirty my britches, I wonder what happens with the dildo-possessing bitches, of the world, all the girls, sticking in the plastic shape, while IT VIBRATES!

Touching my proverbial Clit, when this is it, as the prose-poem comes to an end, like my late and great Reverend Jim Chase who tastes the love from above, damsically in Heaven, over all of them, on Earth, so wide, so girthy, and dirty Africa, when I frown on Negroes, the thugs, who tug at their belts, with their firearms- their knives and guns, of Gus Pearson like the Brothers at Saint John’s — there as a student for 4 years time, I didn’t whine, getting good grades, the barber does many “Fades” in the rear of the skulls, sprayed and spayed by a skunk, I am such a HANDSOME HUNK, a Holy Hulk of Joe Rogan possession of psychedelics, on Spotifying sports, there’s a big back-log at U.S. Ports with awaiting Cargo, I need to leave you, and let this poem be, for all to see, my Followers know I’m not a coward, in a herd, have you heard? The geese and the geezers squacking and coughing out the CO2 with some smoke to poke a woman’s stomach pudge, like Muffin Top, I look to the man, Wayne Marquis, who my little brother Justin calls him “Pop” and goes the weasel like the weasel goes pop — a big Popcorn Secret of Victoria… her undergarments will augment the tit’s of tantalizing Jiggles, jumping up and down, Like girls on trampolines, jumping for air and watching the onlooker men stare at the stairs above, climbing, breathing to the beat… MY MEAT!

Pesky Derelicts be de-selected boners at the track meets, they stare downward looking at their feet, admiring the Adidas shoes, and going on a cruise, barefoot by the pool, but shooting billiards to be amused, and by my prose it’s Justine I want to bone, as my gentle genitals are all of my own, and in the proverbial “Zone” — me the King on my thrown rotten tomatoes, eating baked potatoes, when I inhale the fumes of MMJ from yesteryear, I greatly dislike faggot queers, who are drinking the low-carb beers known as “Michelob Ultra’s” my power at any hour of the day or night, beer and alcohol never in sight, as I forgo the swill, favoring a summery “grill” to cook the meeting a neat girl who’s shorter or too tall, I want to have them all, what’s between their legs, I like the white skin of caucasians and cooked eggs, the whites, so White Powers at any hours, day and night, I just may, put up a fight…

But being non-violent I do not throw the first punch, when, fighting me, I will literally “Take you to Lunch” as I lurch and feeling supreme thirst, the Diet Red Bull is keeping my stomach full, with a small belly, Welch’s peanut butter and jelly, by the wayside as I listen to the Goo Goo Dolls song “Slide” enamored with such pride and big privates, I search for female mates, to think, 18 or more sweetie whores, drenched in sweat, their prized #1 organ is getting so wet, at the sight of me, they are about to be, with me, for Tantric sex, so who’s next?  I would love to be with Laurie Griffin, to no end, my money I would spend- on gifts for her and the family, married now, to a manly man, I would take his hand, and remove the paid- wedding ring, for Laurie of The Sole Proprietor, my heart sings, with heartbeats sweating, my heart is melting, Laurie I want YOU, a suitable sweet replacement for Justine and a boob-job for L. would be obscene to be seen, so keep them perky as the dreaming of a Notre Dame private-school kinda girl has my world, and our nation is special, speculating war with Russia, Vladimir I want to crush ya!

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