Would you like a toke?
Affirm of France happy the realm,
From which proceeds Pantagruelion.
It’s dicks o’clock, dude. Time to be humping the little ladies. This ain’t vaporware. Not in our neck of the woods. Spoiled childs.
The boys wanted me to have a talk with you. Here’s the low down. You’re in the red for:
- Half a jug of cashews
- A vague memory of hearing Marilyn vos Idiot-Savant hitting a high G natural when accosted by the woolly marmot.
- Two bits on the dollar.
- Time for a break.
- Space for rent and the light at the end of the tunnel.
I am tired of cursing the Bishop, (Said Crazy Jane)
Nine books or nine hats
Would not make him a man.
I have found something worse
To meditate on.
A King had some beautiful cousins.
But where are they gone?
Battered to death in a cellar,
And he stuck to his throne.
Last night I lay on the mountain. (Said Crazy Jane)
There in a two-horsed carriage
That on two wheels ran
Great-bladdered Elmer sat.
Her violent man Cuchulain sat at her side; Thereupon’
Propped upon my two knees, I kissed a stone
I lay stretched out in the dirt
And I cried tears down.
Man and manatee, woman and wombat, landed in gentry, christened in combat, there’s a crack in the esprit d’armor.
Millie made muffins for the multitude but jesus got all the credit. Credit where credit is due, by gum.
Pepe popped in to the peep-o-rama but it turned out he was in his cups and the pope got the coats of the many coloureds and those of the rug riders. He pulled the rugs out from under them. That’s the way things go during the decline of the umpire.
Forgive me for poisoning your well but it was all in the spirit of jest.
As, jest you wait until I get ahold of you. Then we’ll see who’s the cock of the robin and who’s a ward of the state. You got to have balls to become a bowler. You got to have the shits to become a plumber. You got to have your head examined to become a shrink
the lady in waiting had a quilted foundation and the garment of a gamin a profusion of profundities poured from her pudendum holy mackerel and clams for us all at the coquille saint jack
My grandfather told this story to me, then he died laughing despite the pain of the stone.
Now therefore, let not my blood fall to the earth before the face of the lord: for the king of Israel is come out to seek a flea, as when one doth hunt a partridge in the mountains.
I’d walk a mile for a camel and dive a fathom for a glucose fahrt. Shiver me timbers. Bout ready to hit the sack to munch kurds and whey Don’t now how to put this but many hans make short gretles.
His defense rests upon the assumption that dark energy boxes in a higher weight than light. Under these circumstances, what could be expected other than malfeasance decoherence subsistence subduction and what have you? These are the times that try men’s souls, and the soils of women.
Being but men, we walked into the trees Afraid, letting our syllables be soft For fear of waking the rooks, For fear of coming Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. If we were children we might climb, Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig, And, after the soft ascent, Thrust out our heads above the branches To wonder at the unfailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, And the wonder, that man knows, Out of the chaos would come bliss. That, then, is loveliness, we said, Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim and the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees. — Dylan Thomas
They was apprehended with their pants down by the selfies they took at the end of their tether when they barely could consummate a simple handshake. The beans said it was astrooloogically impossible for the house to take a loss, but there he was, a paulbearer at his own funeral. He died with his boots on of idiopathic uncertainty compounded with Doctor Brain’s diarrhea.