Tuesday, December 22, 2009


A witch is burning . Her buns . Outside the thatch curses the air its plenty of buckteeth rattle the bones of rotting feuding knights. A kitchen spoon to wand her curse. Curtsy? this hag 's not borne courtesy to her womb yet. She's sworn her teeth to cursing the knight's grand illusion .

Courtesan to her thing Mona copulates the maid their foursome is death's door to its ox . A fuckweed to the terror of its learning.

Some half assed knight busts a gut husbandry a lost art to its furrow. Harrowing to its placement.

Jill's sack's filled with gewgaws bric-a-brac and sun lotion.

It's the late nine-teen hundreds . No one remembers the word for it... a cow paste?
what is it for god's sake!

Fell me now with your word. Fell me now with your asshands.