For we spoke our MIND, for they took us up the BEHIND.

Must’ve been WELL REARED.

Christ!

Aún más?

ICH AUCH!

Oh, don’t worry. They got the bugger!

Oh, how we worried, for they played rugger!

Go beat your carpets, go talc your hairy pits.

At which point nor did we laugh. Or, or did they. Or not.

We know nothing of it.

Came the wanker’s applause from …

Krakow??

Spumante from the fizzy pop nephew stall.

Time for a new … grasps the wilting’s wilting.

Growth spurt, MENINO?

Flowerpot fiasco crew, W.W.F. taurine brothel.

District based foreign holiday cru.

By Tidd.ly flip?

Ham & egg, mate. Dodgy knee?

Grower! Grower! Plátanos!

Knaws at .self.object.FFS loop.

We know nothing of it.

Das Bild reader, we suspected.

A line of credit stretching from Hanover to Hanover Street.

So slide it slowly across the desk.

Damn good cop.

OUT!

Ich aus, lisped the Hun instead of spitting.

DE-MISSION, Six-Nine Over!

Glaikit cricket-faced idiot.

Hops along the lawn looking for lager ingredients.

Immortal combat pants, Seventy-Nine vintage. Cuppa?

Skimmed ILK, fetch me the pasteuriser machine.

We know nothing of it.

For I was never worried about me, for I must have been worried about some other cunt.

by/por:

a man called lyrical & an odd fragrance by the biblioteca.

“Candelabra!”, shouted the unspecified walker clutching a wax statuette amid its undiagnosable choice in moob holders.

We know something about it. But nothing of it.

Spat out they in unite.

“Nonce!” shouted the boy as a book bounced off his bonce.

Sun, sun.

An ounce of cure, though.

And we bled them dry said the blood-loss clinic trainee.

Oh, how he was rewarded at Christmas.

So you’re from Bathgate? Simply fence off the shower.

«  Mon frére !  »

And yes it goes up but not down.

Indignant idiot.