Created: Sunday, 20 October 2002 Written by CorrespondentWould you belive only from death doth flow the truth?
Can your eyes only gaze on to tits made of snow? Cold and everlastin' they'd be frozen like mummy popsicles, for all you assholes?
Squished it. felt it. And like Jacinta's Boots, ye be chooglin' in the rain. Would you plunge it between cheeks filled with the rose of youth?
That'd be why I feel dism this way...