Stay too feet with the baked meat at the Bakers on my “Banker Pond” but shopped and full won what’s undone to become-ing the combed hair combined to act so awfully snide, when pants are wide, around the ankles of one valid person—not an old “Invalid” of sickness—when my writing be the thickest third-leg of a D. to drill with a bright blue pill—or be it Pink and shrunk—little girls (21+) on the Birth Control—with a substance not to be imbibed, a beauty bride slicking slinging with the K-Y Jelly purple lips are smelled and off-key odorous, the pores of Lisa Ling-Ling, as the Chorus sings off the waxy maize of one’s fitness-ambitions to skinny up and trudging long footsteps, walking the baby Pup, Rudger and Oliver of EVOO sold with cement sneakers—then sunk—lake’s bottom—to “Sleep with the fishes”—The Soprano’s I misses the Tony big-boss with a daughter named Meadow, to the, Soprano, how keen and her now, dressing fully obscene with string-tied undies to wear, without a care in the world—yes, this “Jamie-Lynn Sigler” a personal favorite when doing what’s right- and at night, and at no cost but a latex later wrapper like my “Wrapped Bitcoin” oh the loins, porked, of lions being King, while the chorus sings a note, of a TTYL and expecting a response sometime LATER ALLIGATOR!

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