With winning what but I am an amethyst saloon swinger catching the drift if what but only if… only if I get a spliff lit, coming with it, to buy the crated case of butternut roses, of oh if only, the irony, on oh the iron—it’s getting too many flamers calling for a soul’s banter at the what can’t she do, while being bending, putting on a red ruby shoe—one of two—so with winded lungs and wild antics, she pulls up to the curb- ever so speaking easily with Dom to be dominated—the organ forsaken and post-boned shake-it on a skillet when the iron grills it of out the creases and the baked buns—their yesterday’s greeting along the camaraderie see ya! that them buns of your “hun’s” with straight intentions only so suffice the dereliction of my text being purely chivalry to the King on his agenda…
But with all of this “TRANNY” SHIT, the King has always been a male “on His ummm GENDER”