The neat sheets having used a Sheik (form of protection) and latex strong, soft, and delicate but so weak, all week long, wish wish, and gifted with the delightful light of sun’s, rays, shining down and again wishing for a raise at the workplace of office Microsoft and Word, jotting junk when bored- like me with what you view, through and through, sentences askew with a few Xannies in my medical are-senile of accredited “Medz” to the reading of no magazines but wholely February holiday, The Qur’an 7/10th’s through the book, fishes hooked on Molly, being wholely absorbed under the tongue (Sublingual Absorbed) and shun the E, the X, the acid rain, puking into a sunk through the drain, and drifting delinquently perspiring greatly—preparing to shake all the way to the get-go, you know?
How’s a house without a bi-sexual Spouse to spoon, goes Elon Musk to the moon but at a later date, when I hope for a date with who, too, we will Mate on a Playboy “play-date” of fun-time with my rhyme-ing to the spent near pennies, me in tears… and rippers in my trousers to whip mine out, stick it in the clique of Lacey Chabert in Mean Girls, a la Lindsey Lohan with that right-side digital grabbing at me what’s bragging and swagging, a hot poker, playing the Ace—yeah pulling an Ace with a Bicycle Deck of cards—and what’s this thin bit about NFT playing-cards? Hence, I — the Bitcoin Whale at a trial between my legs, snacking and bragging “BIGLY” with where my TD Bank is hidden from me—and we will see, sometime soon, did you know there’s a third Chinese balloon?
To the soap and on a rope, for me no way- going a ways between shower times to wash every third day or so with the unmotivated, I, who, me, I’m afraid of falling in the shower- slipping sudsy with The Bubbly belches of my hardly ever, to sweat, me sweet enough to stay skinny a la my low-carb dieting of tossing with away the paper plate dishes, recognizance of Tricia from Shrewsbury yeah her so skinny and mini but tall and her waist, so small, titties nearly non-existent, too, with her boozing while I drove 45 minutes away to Charlton, MA of the hey-day that’s ninety (90) minutes commuting a day to the S to the J of Saint John’s clamor of neckties’ glamour with sport-coats and dressed up, the pricey Doc Martens shoes, when at the dances feeling under-boobs of itty-bitty bitches, and in the dark when dancing and prancing for the floozy ho’s who they all KNEW how us Saint John’s boys were fancy, so we would dancing
Beat up to the jingle of an upper-class jungle. Mr. Bungle, and avoiding available turmoil—of Oil Rich Nations (of Islam) to replicate the shirts of buttoned-up with suicidal showering together, showing dicks aside, so snide, my remarks of HARK! to swim with the fishes of Mark Cuba-n on “Shark Tank”—Bitcoins and Dan B. to thank, him having had lunch with Brother Justin—stepped aside from my “Justine” Tini Ara of when I would be ‘a’ staring straight stride right to smoosh every night, oh the cavities—I say “Please” and “Thank You”—want to speak aside pulled, I mentioned stripped-bare “Stride” in the Ide’s of March to the 20, when twenty, days into… I’ll be 41 years old, still in my prime from what I rhyme to be, for me, the one who was once, maybe, in-to brought-up “protein peptides” that once again, Stride!
With of course- me feeling the Saint John’s Catholic School “Pride” with the one-eye or two, too, when I sprint along the grassy knoll with no weed to, ever, sold and/or be selling this green KY gel and/or my arm-pits smell when I stick with Gillette underarm cleansing, for a lack of stinky slinky smelling, perusing a women’s Saline ensembled DD melons, in tears with minced onions- Funyuns for when the, oh lol, the fun times of going for runs, Handicapped with a phat lip and if you catch my drift, this be the rift of a marshy wild river—running through the lands—while I try to do a hand-stand but I lay to waste a sticky paste when the spotter watches me falter upright to assist my stumble, the Bumble of a bees silly banter—me laughing at the group of decades ago—The Black Panthers…
But my Dad tells me that 99% of the population aren’t racist—when I proudly, loudly shout my ethnic cleansing of wondering how could I feel good about myself in marriage with a Negress packing heat—that’s why I hate The Streets, opiate freaks and the boozed up homeless junkies, like those hardly- being with white skin, from England or France, I hate those who wear baggy jeans with bullet holes, packing heat and hitting a blunt, when a black and a white, they fight, and the white wins knocks down the negro—although and but at which point, the black—sorry I shouldn’t say black, so let’s say, “AFRICAN-AMERICAN” he pulls out a pointed .357 Magnum and kills whitey…
So the moral of the story is—DON’T BE A RACIST!!!!! =D
American imports and Sandals Resorts- when it’s come to this… that I want you all to look at my teeth how white they were in previous years, when I had enough enamel to have showed my brightly shone teeth and buttered tippy-toe shoes, never bruised or battered with the pitter-patter of Cake Batter rats, they scatter, and China has one or more balloons that haven’t made the news, this when I still haven’t gotten my mailed-in and nailed-in to my right wrist, my writing fists of pecking to be “Oh that TYPE!”