1.
Dancing on the debris of Fromm pedigree, as your destiny
to distinguish a child from an adult, for the Porn night.
The corsage was lit, so was the tux the greatest shit but tiny –
destitute, the clits lost its P cliché for the award whiny...
Framing the poetry for the sake of audience, out with the lights;
the nightingales shall soon be following the ashtrays in tights!
Who dost love a Robin Hood story tuned Max Payne in a buy me?
2.
What value has not been diluted with lamp-oil and snake-oil sales;
to jail any free tinker, who would Jinx in their Arcade for Jubilee?
For all hath been creators and gods, but shall fall down from Yale;
dying their hair pink, like Harward, for God is dead, the G's staled
Him. Would the next forest Hermit please stund up and be Slim-Spree!
Who wouldn't think of the children to avoid Nazi, at least Naši gale;
Pedos the new Pretorians, who raise the flag of stagnation in stains.
3.
Snake eyes to the guys, who cosplayed high elves and forgot a white ork;
it was supposed to lead all the others to the promised land, as promilled
by Genova. His witnesses dyed their hair white, ambitions in green-york.
I don't need a church to read the Bible, or tell a savant from a dork!
I mill free cards to search-tree the house of ours, the cars scar killed
the plain and simple thrill of having nothing to slay, but a close shave til'
the next Becket spills his blood for the King of England and fork.
4.
Uniting the elves, what need no ring of Chowder, to get loud;
the lions who could laugh at their own discretion either-or!
Denned between a cornerstone and the chosen bread of clouds.
Only the Ravens could tell the tale, untitling the tilted ploughs;
The camels who smoke sheep for breakfast neither bored
nor confused by the contemporary sciences silence the Lord.
Who could check their credentials to cast out demons, Hound?
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