Wear Sunscreen!

Snaking shaking and bacon to bank with Fleet, me sitting straddled-  on my feet, in dressy socks, so I look quite NEAT, and needy without Johnny double-D’s frightened, to ponder, of what was informal and un-sunder on a Saturday night—the hours long—trying on a ball-gagger of “Crypto” my investment, him somewhat Breasted, sucking his pierced nipples, so that maybe to let him sizzle in heck where the faggots wear hemmed pants to take off, avoiding his sued sexual “toys” and legitimate “Cuffs” while I was treated too rough and ready for my appetite, loosey-goosy, as to doodle with the dudes and their slinky noodles- being sipped when held upon a Spliff so lifted with what iron-clad whey and chocolately “Weights” on the Gym-Side, when such a Treadmill Stride like a pointed stick of chewey gum, taking it to Bruce who his spruced up Twitter and Facebook (but in revered court-orders!) my Senate-hopeful friend I rem-ember, and Him when I got the drift of True Religion alas The Holy Land, me lending a hand and that the, and, well to be me umber-joyous  Jeffrey or "Jeffry" (Jeff M) laid in full with a tip of the catcher’s mitt, the two stinky pitts, and on and on and on...

The cup of a lowlife drunk, sunk, and it stinks as much as what was “Rotten” dot-com so long ago, making waves on broadband with the Eminem standing—a little short—and always with a retort, returned to the turntables having been retired, retarded, that is all now computer schematics—get at them where the addled is—or be, when I come so sunlit “trees” to think about these in the order of the “exe” Elastics with the Old Skool yo, it’s coolio among the northern lights at night, may be trite and tied and try’d to find the downlow-est drumstick of a drummer eating in the country of Turkey, when to say, “Hi!” and “Hey!” to the street-laden ways and methods of speaking, get him to the Greeking, so often and not Weeping ass cracks and/or “panic attacks” I would have in Public Speaking at parties and such, when spreading garden-seeds and “Mulch”—my muscles and such, it sucks, and very Much to treat a tinker-bell having done Jr. High at Shepherd Hill the school of some Duds, soapy suds, showering sucks to SLIP and the season of Fallen Grandpa—drunk and felled

Fentanyl-ated in high spirits, his drooped drool dripping into a puddle—he’s getting drunk and addled, like a WWII battle, oh it’s ON, and I would love to see the greatness of God and Allah, that is to Be. . .