York Butter Bitten Bono Has No Friends
Looks good, haha. Brooklyn hoodies hate hats. Brad, clean my goodies and eat that. Bradley Kirkham is my good easy-chair but a sandpaper mat. That little lie will be costly in the gammonly Chad and his difficult task of not butting a massive anal newspaper. That clitoral willy-beacon ousts Linda’s gammon-leaves, whilst Chad Tomkiss is a dick, full of shit. OFCOM putting Abraham-nal sex-pavement. What literal, wily bacon-lover would tout a Lily Allen ticket and simply leave, when Katy was such a dumpster for all of Chad’s mouldy cum? Speaking of which, it’s time we be pudding her chocolate memory to a brummie rest (certainly not trainsex). My butt bitten, I rallied highly Richard Bacon’s lovers, with pudding. Taught Lily Anallen? My pick-axe simply cleaves. Katy Reece was and still is a fucking dumpster. For all the cud she molded clumsily into wisen. Shitted thighs resemble chocolate pudding, and trauma-memories of a bumming arrest (consistent with no trainee sex offenders). Thine butt-kitten really has a need for Robert Pritchard’s pancakin’ videos, if it’s pudding she wants. Taut Lily’s annulled music is a shick-cacks, on the other hand, which flicks beans. Simply never Faty’s, woah no, for fear of diving and Stigging the still Dump; free for all bits and pieces to avoid. Saw it happen thrice in an ensemble of chocolate poking; a trauma-inducing rammery of unbecoming non-rest for your butt did to that boy. Can this sit, spent, and know friends? Thigh high boots kit out rarely hastened Robert Pritchard. Panicking, we overdose, as if there are pancakes in her cunt. Tall Ill Anushka abuses pizza, like Shick-Katy, boning another friend and kidneying her bean. A gimp leash tethers Fato Ono to vier ovens whilst, “DIE VEGANS”, Tigger still numptily yawns. Piff and Pee stay stooled. The very eyesore Iqbal penned threw cyanide on assembled chocolate PKR. Alarmin binmen Jews sing Ramsay off with Bar Mitzvah Bacon. On respiratory York Butter tooth-ache, boy can this shit spend! I have NO FRIENDS. Shy Guy stoops, shits [on] and clouts every husband Robert ever bewifed. “That FUCKING… was so close - as if you are a king trapped in a cunt - as if you are a horse with no face. Y’all better use this feeder, it’ll bone-bone sweet justice on your friend’s bean-pipe” exclaimed the concerned gimp in a letter to a care-not Bono, whose oven is quite full of you-know-what. THY HEATHENS, Adam Piggott mumptily gumps all over the awning. Piff-Vinewood lay stools and site under. “What a bumsore cabal we’re penned in with,” say they, [aside]. Then mumbled a pokin’ charmin bear-man “I ad shit such as is located in certain cooks’ mouths, and absorb not” - through a mouthful of Gannon gammon. In hindsight, only the York pub would prove such a watering hole for boys with with no friends.
