Sloppy eaters of hay via cream cheese,
the royal, Gray Poupon, is standing at the door.
My one and only friend, shall it ever be made
hence, that the present wind bender blew
a kiss onto thy check. Surely it is peek mating
season. The matador is standing at the door again!
I say onto you m'dear, so shall it ever be a reckoning.
In farce attitude at such an altitude at the coronation
ball, that the ball bounced on his head and
off to another odd brain in statue times.
The corridor is leaking in coriander.
Crimson calamities, all to avoid banality...
was it worth the charred meat and silver
gumball machines? I beg you to pardon!
I deliver my pantyhose to your nose,
now sniff! At the party in the churning
of the century, the old models are
replaced with newer replicas.
An old wife shall be traded for a newer
photoshopped trophy. Out with the old man,
bring me a handsome devil.
Oragies will be a happier place
instead of the ones held at funeral parlors.