Hangmans Poker

Trance parents there'nt tranceparent enough
to parent what they where'nt and stuff --
the press hanged on the lauder of Dale and Dingle
something had to make my Christmas...
before the academy was gone as was the summer.


My lame dead jokes of It fucking E.T and
becoming an Alien in Harlem for a french kiss
and molotov coctail, made my burgers under the boot;
and for stomping on the ground, exploding with flavour text:
"Savour the taste of weak Diablo 3 opponents, who made me sleep."


Who shall be my daddy; who my big brothel? As Onigiri
was pleading to be innocent, while being devoured
for too white content and devout established whistler community.
What ever would don Quichote say about those windmills;
and knightingale novelists aspiring to find Ultima Thule?


As my rotten corps of Iron Maiden, who was born at Niflheim,
invited some bad alps to our date, to spice up the life...
The things you say and do for some fucks to give, I don't know...
Tried to KKK it in Estonia, but Google corrected me FAQ --
I mean, I don't wanna give that many... just a little bit more.


Or with blood -- they say, its the thought that counts.
Dead blood is also blood; so once I'm dead, if they take it;
or I download a torrent of the last Blood version, that should do.
Also the first blood from Rambo -- or some virtual from Twitter!
Schools always have fresh blood, so I could hang in there to get some.


My poker was pickled with chipped out tongues and missing clits;
a hanging dick and a furry mouse, who had too long of a vacation
in Chernobõl... He fell in love with their huge strawberries...
Not even my pussy wanted him, and made the mouse dismayed.
but at least the hanging dick got a nice shave; went hard, never looked better.