For the fook o literature,
I have nit see so much oiley slease.
You have the gall to call yourself writers.
The Gods are not that easily apeased.
My muses come sing to my aims,
The sirens call them to the drains.
The fire storms on head a great ball,
You call yourself writers, yet with tiny palls.
I would carry your bones,
I would not visit your grave.
Away, away, you tant amounts to chaffe,
For you are not. Witers but crnivls alone.
Oh come thee you shouldd dare,
And we shall see whom did lovingly with a wisdom wear,
It's not yours, baby fanties....
email my website
www.archive.org
this website belongs to all
Don't be angry and short
or short and ugly bald
simply as it taught
donne onto others
as others donne unto you.
ndddagghhh.
the mews.
Peace for Pizza.