Shifted Solids Way Too Wet, and a “Towel movie and meant, to be to this: Processed Food” swiping a credit or debit "CARE" with your writing about a swingers entangled wrist, do the Dougie, and then: DO THE TWIST!

Solid subsequence to and of any mystical pretense

Sunk in cement, the footsteps instilled with the hour-glass

At all times of day I quest to sway with tumultuous times

SOBER 2016+ with no whining or wine—Stutter Home,

The game is thrown, pawn to a ditch—I’m Rick James, bitch, what an itch and how so well I know, I’m no snitch and I have a permit, that’s me harking, parking plus keeping a “packet of Catsup in a purely Gucci purse” at my side, hips wide—while I am seeking fame and no slander to my name, we’re played “The Game” brand of cigars, sipping lily very large, and upon what shelf to stretch—I’m Jeffrey Marquis, you wretch-ed souls, should have HODL’ed the digital currencies—I’m giving them to American’s land—a beach filled with tiny rock particles, oh I love those, the sea’s sifted sand—took a sip, wild rip, and to all those gorgeous girls gone—butts to be buried with a—not a song—but a chantilly laced, floss in your face, what’s they getting on under the once in a lifetime, a permanent burial dress—put on, wearing, who would have thought—a burial plot—pinched by a pink Thong!

Goodness gracious I sing, how to manage, with them strings, them things on being worn, porn of a Vicky’s Secret, so keeping a G-String?