SHAFOFAIRE.BLOGSPOT.COM
Latrina do SaberDomingo, 19 de janeiro de 2014. Thou who slips over the ridges. Taking sips under the bridges. In crowns of gold you must rely. So men of cold can try to fly. One sees you in the glorious missions. Which could be the dreariest issues. The joy in the verses of poems. Is also the ploy of the omens. Where, wonder I, do I look for? Whispers of words of hope. Holy blessings from a pope. Empty caresses with a *****. Come on, you bloody little *******. Get out of that stinky hole. For you're not rabbit nor mole.
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