Oni-Chan in da house

I fourplay after 4Chans batteries calling her Oni-chan;
on the Ouija board, with a flat chestnut and small Dickon
figurine... I insult to deus lo vult your vultures of inane
habitual cultures Sepultura roosts, inventing the goat to
tumult in Germany. My got to go safe haven like Killarney;
as I cancel the insist to incest in Hells least as though,
their Heavens best! Ass-skeletons had to reddit there laid to rest.
I got laid infest to gather interest to my pint of Guiness
and beguiled Ted-Ed the end contests... Goo the gal
@ the Pollution station hard pollen there to occupy Cantebury;
burrowing my heart and empty wounds in there somewhere.


Order was out of business, Mayhams had the floor;
perhaps had left the building, like the King,
and the Queen still stayed on!! The show must go Born;
if Bond had an Ultimatum, that would be the amswering question.
to Bean or not to Bean... may Norway and Daneborg rot in glee
on their trek to communism... Bankrupt for the sins, they
didn't corrupt. but their prodigees will pedigree anyhow...
Anathema the anthem  spirit of St. Louis, who lost his head
on blue jeans canvases; derelikt phonebooths and phoney assassins.
The four headless horsemaidens carried him to Hogwarts.
The four houses turned to five to become two...


Death dug a molehunt and became Huffle so puff daddy;
Ric Flair had a glowing personality and reunion,
Famine took Griffindor and bravehearted in Maverick's;
Ole Anderson had a niece to scold for her cuisine.
War went spoiling Ravenclaw with conundrums and Arthur Conan Doyle clones;
and Arny Anderson was confused between Terminator or Matrix.
Conquest slivered through all nine rims of Cow bells ringing through X-mas to Hail Santa!!
Tully Blanchard was not amused of it any bit, of his RAM...
contemplating the contempt between continental templites
suffocating snuffed candles with whistles, blowing on the alien flames.
That's what I would call the quickening of drive-in ghost writers wet screams...


I busted a nail in your coffin - I hope you don't mine. There are hardly any diamonds
in my closet or chest and the ice run away with the running fridge. We have to settle
with rotten tomatoes, at the hopes Gangrene is not putting his Green thumbs out again.
@the pollution station I had a wet fart and telegraphed it to Olden-Jearsey,
Guernsey moved back to France to have an Islander in New-South-Springfield expo.
I exposed the poser as an impound lot to glitter the pricing on the cake he had
while eating Borch and Brussel sprout. Eclipsing my clipped wings and feathers
to a minority report of a lone scoundrel miserable in throwing up the towel I ate...
Joker promised to redeem my barcode, if I could touchdown in Carteret and
drink some Gasgogne blood and wear iron masks what depleted Pop-Eyes veins...
Some logs there hurled out of the attic to scorn my nosy parking, but my pinky Brainiaced.