Sun-light To Sun-rise them lit-up lightsy eyes 'o' mine, seeing Sun-shine! =)

Sick hiccups, and slender Hi-C cups-  I have had enough when, and only when, they give me my $315 pen, made by Mont Blanc and stolen by the staff, my judgement mentals, they are aft and airborne—with much scorn for my sworn enemies, wearing Napoleon shafted fashionables, on, when plaguing the role of a paltry Pawn and I, the paws of a lion addled, horses saddles for Farmer John Deere (profited Stocks) because of Trucker Hats, I don’t wear- don’t care with my Top Hat on, worn by me on occasion about my USA “Nation” paying taxes and I’m a big-spender somewhat of a lender... my Ledgers, Public and Private—oh don’t you know?—it’s as if I run the financial show, candles put them out with a lightly blow to extinguish the flames, their anguish as fuck, have I said enough about my millions USD- Dad can maybe give me a swift transfer to my Banks—I have at least $1M in TD Bank—my parents and Aunt Donna Donohue—I thank them—oh Mama, who... I call you “crusty” because with Justine Ara, I must be with her my chosen mate—her short and with her smelly Malpractice ProActiv facial complexion, no problems there—with her hair and my genitals, we were so close, clones almost, but me The Man stopping my car at a lemonade stand street-side Biggie Size paying with a $20 bill—they were thrilled to hear, “Keep the change” of a Tranny now vaginoplasty, Mr./Mrs. Kirsten with a car its chrome rims

Dublin dingers and drunken singers of “Sweet Caroline” having been pulled over driving, by an obtrusive policeman—not Trans anything... but anyways to Walk The “LINE” on a phonecall for more Ale made by Anheuser-Busch

Prestigious logo’s of shopping for dressy shirts and designer colognes, like me- this I’ve known, and known enough to buy 5 different Bitcoin shirts, some Funkadelic—I’m not a derelict individual or pride, hopefully with Justine to be my treasure, my Treasured Bride—honestly, not to be shride or shrewed—me dancing proud in the news—being big nosed schnoz which I know, I AM NOT PINNOCCIO, but saying the truth—my reproductive organ was GROWN, a-newed for news to you, that they gave me the gift, of length and width, me a owner of 2 Ledgers, I say I love the news-girl named “Bri Eggers”—hot off the plate and her doing news during the DAYTIME, then having been MARRIED—that she is not mine!

Minecraft. The minded fraction of a crafted person, perusing the usual selection of wine, losing to the liquor addiction, all the tippity-top Time of day and when it becomes dusk, Elon Musk, my 2005 “best friend” who but him, thin with healthy exercise, although, who knows, maybe he’s a’ lying!  So kick to the swayed swagger of knifing a man with a mean-lit “dagger” of Dogecoin, 1 Dogecoin given to Ember here, keeping her near and buying her a gift, does she catch a merited “drift” from me—the doggy will see, me, and having made plentiful donations to my USA nationality—addled getting the best of me- and my own, who they have seats at the dinner-table “Throne” that I don’t keep it all myself, this is known, so the bottom half is not my own, and to have sworn tossing a nut in the air, then busted on the floor- down there at the bottom, seeking saucy relations come bed-time the parents of a house, and snorting the majority of snots? I think not... no way, but saying aloud to the better booger chewer, do what you do for the girls- maybe disgusted—ain’t at me—but at you of disposable disposition depositation of deforestation, plaguing the Earth of all-time that’s my mammal dedication, to brush the bushes and paint the pedestal, on which the President does speak—him absolutely appearing this WEEK, of daily White House press conferences, abiding by the blocked off fences, girls on their Menses.