flick her ring around

pucha, pare. here i go again. and wexed thought i am sick since no post for the past two days. and the puchang-maniniyut allan almost-like-a-holy-blessing greeting me a good morning (good moaning, guys. moan some more. yeah. that's the way to do it. uh-huh uh-huh!) only to be castigated and announce that his pee-churs will be featured in a daily broad shit (talk about bodily extracts so early makes me moan some more. good moaning, butt-heads!).

oh, flick her. flick her some more. pee-churs and dreaming to be a wannabee pucha-pare maniniyot. i'd rather dream and stroke that red button. shooting without no blood. no blood no foul. gaddem. pucha.

prodigy is bleating my rockin-beats and the mammaries of them chemicals my brother left (he's still on it by the way) is coursing thru my synapses like golden lava only to be reminded that the laundry still needs to be wrung. oh, dripping dripping white fluids. bubbles of thoughts poking thru that flick-her-ring madness.

be still my beating manoy-that-has-been-beaten. thy yolk runneth over. only to be caught in the cottony-softness of the music which bleats. damn goats. stop blabbering.

so i sayeth, pare. go forth and be merry and eat that fruit from the garden of good and evil. wrench your thoughts and dry that laundry. and don't forget to multiply, pare.

my, my. aren't we colorful this morning. capische shells, pare. let's.