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The herald of reason came to my mind, in golden wings of delight under a sun of trumpets:
won't you rape me anymore egocentric creature?
Stretch your dick and introduce it in your ass
phenomenon made of mayonnaise, farts, beer, burps and gastric disasters: shock me with your last hypocritical punctilio, Atilio.
Maybe you're becoming old, fat and predictable
and yer buoys sink down. Down.
Is too late to degenerate yourself with saint pureness like the gods DO.
Helot of the nothing
hissing in polar winds
blizzards of...
...farts.
Hocus-pocus of the pavilion of your own fantasms: crucify me, slash me, whip me: i won't be there, just my rawhead, mirror of your mucky smile, and...
...whirr around the horsedung, my ashtray of motorcycle, my sweet juiceless one.
Your ass?
Ah! dances like an elephant with haemorrhoids, stop trying to distil nasty gold from bullshit: your nourishment consist only in repugnant things, like the wax of your own ears.
Your heedlessness and epigastric rumbles are notable: do you need a trucker's fist into your ass-hole?
Go suck your mother's cunt, cunt.
Mr. flattus Maximus: your farts could create new galaxies/stop! stop! Botchy fubby, your constipations must be titanic, you need a diuretic.
But in any case, go exonerate your intestines off here.
And don't flood the bathroom anymore, please.
.
