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Go Manicure Your Eyelashes

before you go & wildglee
into some jumprope fuck impromptu-ly.
Say, we warned you
the "itch" would be a first-off goo number
to poke a jagged hole
in one philosopher's After Soul.
Thence to be stuck paying that overdue
AIDS-parking ticket.
And your muddlemind'll numb up to
"crisis is just more trash aborted."
Well hell, any leftover cum from your brain
must be wading through asshole hordes
for clues. So go ahead
shovel, mock, pass a comet with
your pseudo-rocket.
Personally, I only get off when
the blood rutting's spewing out
the inferno side yonder.
But hey, c'mon, eat me under water

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