All Dem Purty Gals

When you try to make Neil Young last all you get is doubloons, banal and bromidic. It's all just pissing in the wind" replied the gallant "cause I know it ain't you and i really gotta poo." He swept with a swashbucklin' rictus and proceeded to grab the hall pass to my coccyx. He's not the most practical chum he be a bit too cray cray and he has polio, only Jews and cripples contract their anus' and polio. The practicality of lepers is astonishingly erotic we shall end the night fisting; I object to the fisting but I'd really like to claim your ass. "OH NO" gasping pasping my rum tum tugger is tingling tumultuously my ritzy radius is rapidly recommending a regatta. His piss felt lukewarm on my brow as he fisted my squirrely anus, I thunked he was gon' brake my arms off. Shrek 2 has it all laughs, thrill but it goes deeper than that see, the themes of corporate struggle, urban decay, lusty revenge, revengeful lust, pseudo-socialism and lovin' spoonful caress this gem like a newly expelled poopoo. We's the droogie's hoss. Neil Inducted his unretrained anus into the crevasse of her mouth with his fist still firmly placed in the Lizard King.

Cream Suzy, Eat My Dunkaroo's

Elite, eating their fastidious and flawless foodstuffs, stuffing their flapping gorges until retiring to their fornication chambers. Hemsworth, the Plump One sits across the room twirling his exquisitely trimmed mustache reciting a soliloquy he sits up and wanders to his quarter, until his breath is cut short he clutches his left breast and falls saying only one word "Requiem". Denizens flock to the room to watch the breeding bull slide it's phallus into the supple lips of his mate the crowd cheers at the recent tugging at the strings of life and celebrate as the two climax simultaneously. Remmy, the Skinny One nibbles at his yellowed fingers glancing nervously from one corridor to another, he scuttles down until he reaches the quarter, as he glances behind one more time. The sky rains with the blood of the Unknown Soldier, some farm boys some urbanites the final cries of millions of young men and their softly spoken magic spells. Gertrude, the Final One sits reading her scrimshaw jeering at the scum wander aimlessly through the streets, she sits up, wipes her jacket roughly and starts towards the quarter, behind her stands the one true, Lizard King

Atlas Shrugged: The Squeakuel

I am the very temple of delight, veiled melancholy has her softened shrine, those seeing of none shall save him whose strenuous tongue can burst joy's grape against his palate wide. His soul shall taste the sadness of her might and be among her cloudy trophy's hung. The wayward vagabond blistering across the maelstrom of empty blithering ambitions. Their emotions a shriveled prune tossed away but like wreck on the ocean. The own denizens ethical egoism challenged. Blistering the uncouth actions reflected upon more frequently fortnight after fortnight. The massive truth an malicious act of malum en se corrupting the child's fragile eggshell mind, forever eating away of his dwindling innocence. His unpleasant rictus glaring across the sea of eager faces. An unpleasant taste washed across the sea of euphoria. A  state of tyranny, a tour de force tapping into the very trumpet of hope eating away at our eventual end. But where is this foaming messiah cast upon our rotting lives as a very beacon of promise. WAKE UP. A green monster by my bedside slithering ever so silently. His pilfered thoughts gently removing all conciseness from his growing insanity. There's been a slaughter here. The ankles of society have been gnawed, the motor of establishment stopped, the oedipal exuberant light darkened forever incarcerated in a gilded cage. And there stood The Lizard King

May Desmond enter you, always.