Worker B

 

I hive with my little mind – do you fly, Fish!

Go away, duke, the budget is closed and pigs are tankie;

I. Rony watered my lawn with Crony's Baloney – the cold dish.

Some railroads there trafficking jailbirds – hit and miss;

groomed to be Matches Malone in Heaven honking

on Birds of Pray, for not eating vultured donkeys;

having a C, rather than D&D, to be oust-standing.

I order a chicken-file to be duped Grand Arbiter Yale,

Good Operat' Daimonia – G.A.Y.G.O.D!

Something in between Clark Gable and Florence Nightingale;

the eastern of West and Southward of Norfolk males.

Trouncing on the I-dot, to golem the yod;

Jude Law went Lucy Lawless, to be called Nimrod.

I ruined my day, by stepping onto my lips green-miles!

In other news, I faked an orgasm with hot yoghurt;

Philadelphia sewed me inside her guilt, quilt-charged,

under that rugged corp. I dusted my devils nougat,

made out of hoarse radish; rhubarb and kumquats.

My coffee was having a gold Turkey, while the hilts enlarged;

arsoning the French Fries with garlic paste Vonegut.

Kurt and Kitkat don't return my tongue'n'cheeks,

as I call them haphazardly a Excessive Joyouster;

gallivanting on the Jedi fields of happy-tweets.

Mine went postal at noon, for the wrong beaked

thunderbird HOMM'ed home-runs for free oysters.

Nothing serious or personal in mind, to hoist thus:

Whoosh vents Reddit, disregarding major Dis.Respect's gatekeeps

I could B your F and X-mas to Jordania and Mogonda,

but hotel Rwanda was at Club Californication,

staging blind bets on McLarren and MacCarthy's Honda;

smoking too many joint operations, going Kundalini.

Loosing my last hair-splice streak to Kali's orientation

on the topic of contemporary zen-emancipation,

being owned with nothing, but hand-jobs Swahili...

My handy maid quit on me, having a pussy riot. –

Her 17 kittens decreed alternate state,

culled “Intolerancia Mundi”. For all their compatriots,

they vowed muzzle all dogs and leash parrots,

who can't say: “Polly wants a Hustler!” at 666 interstate.

Rushing my close shaves with mustard contemplate's;

thinking, I desert better with a female Black Butlers pivot...