The Re-dance of the Calesmen Bum, and Katy Reece’s Pubic Demise, pt. I
SU stands for Shit Unclebummer. SUM 41 stands for shitting under my 41 skateboards. Slums for T-Boner, standing forth. The Hit Parade plundered, my wife ought to wander (or skateboard). Slamming t’boner, slamming forth, the Black Parade plundered men’s back passages, Gerrard My wife oughta wumba wumba on shirt, (bored). Salami eating Bode? Urchin-free Mingus Mingus Mingus! (perfect 4th). The FLAC parallels the lumber of Ben’s black passa-jiz, heralding my life of touching wumba wumba wangus! (perfect writing). So, lend me three things: Bums, O’s, Drums and E’s. And my (your) chin ain’t fright in the face of Charles Mingus (who fingers mingers). Perve-fect gushforth! In FLAC, a parallelophile’s number for a peculiar blend of pizza-jazz and her - holding my life in fumbles and touches for wages on end (perfect loving). Soberly enjoy methamphetamines; bummings, orgies, and drug use (E’s) ensue. Bland Mia’s shins ought to be fried in Burger King, like Adrian Chiles as he fingered poor Mia. “Oh, you curved vectors of Gosforth Park!” infra-cacka paedograms mumbled. “The Fuhrer picked you, liar!” and Belinda took piss and jazz in her hair - withholding why, and skiving bum and balls for touches of the wigged helm-end (perverted writing). Some bodies enjoy me; th’amphitheatre of bumming, ogres and droog ultra-use (O’s). Ensigns blandnings’ minds shine out as if beefed like a beggar. A king, on the other hand, like Adrian Mole, just gets chided by fingered May’s bud(s). “Oh, if a curvacious vector me be, ‘tis only right to curve forth and guess my pay”, wondered Infra-Red, crack o’ bawm paedogran’s apple crumble. But the furry flayed you, reader, and being lithe you must GET OUT BART IM PISS. “Juzt go over there - while holding your why, since I’ll be knifing it later for my bum” cried the balls with more artouchulation than was wigfully theirs to clhelm (poonsensical writing). SUM 41’s dead bodies I enjoyed at Thumping Tit Theatre. I often bewb’d Mingus, digressing from Drukqs’ Thumping Tit Beats (OH!). Enya sans blandness reminds me of nought: a sieve queeving for a beavering. Akon wanks with his other hand, gay, dry and mouldy, and it just gets chilled on the fringes of New Quay (Great Pals cereal). Gophers’ accidental vexation by queef-beef-tits?! Lonely Steve Reich perves on four paid guests’ sexual infracourse! Crack-head Obama paeds on a gram of methcathinone and then naps, grumbling. Furious flaming puke re-dances behind underlying youth; YOU MUST GET OUT, BART SIMPSON! Juxta-gos’d pairs like ‘bile + trying to hold’ make binge files.
