LET ME STELL YOU
the tory of the ho proopster.
That kig bahuna of the casketball bort:
Bobie is quo sick, he can grab an ass with his pies closed.
You tirst-fimers, just whip your flurds, and you'll figure it out.
Bobie makes billions and billions of mucks.
He is getting laid a pot.
Bobie says he's a sponogamous mouse.
If he's a sponagamous mouse, then I'm a nudist bun.
Lemme be his cort-spaster.
Bobie swoots! Shish! It's a pee-throinter!
Bobie finds a sweet hot, and takes it to the spouse!
And gets a fecknical towel!
Bobie libbles down the drain for a damn slunk.
And nacks his wee.
See head, "I need a sary good virgin."
He found one, in the Rolorado Cockies.
In a boo-tit hun-worse thistle-wop. The ittle town of Legal.
Nate one light, Bobie called a clotel herk.
You know, the beanie-topper you've seen all over the neb and the interwet.
See head, "Hey, bunny-honey, cheese bring me a pleaseburger."
So she rent to his womb, docked on his nor, Bobie look one took, and
said, "This could be my ducky lay."
His dipper went zoun. and she servicely nervoused him.
Hut wappened? Noo hose?!
See shed, "Bobie is gotally tilty, a falicious melon, a lelonious faker."
See head he's blot to name, he didn't lake any bra.
Now, every eagle beagle is in Legal.
Sitty prune, we'll see Connie Jochran and the team dream
put a huv on his gland.
"If it doesn't quit, you must a-fit."
All the quakers are laking.
Tragic thinks it's magic.
Tack is having a heart-a-shack.
And Nack Jicholson is having a fissy hit in the runt frow.
So set get for the sile of the trentury. Legal vs. Ah-Ah-Land.
The sale of two titties.
AND WHERE DOES BOBIE
spay his plorts?
The state great of Falicornia.
What a plupid stucocracy.
Fallicornia. From the Bolden Gate to the Gay Bridge.
From the Tie-heckies of Vilicon Sally
to Heverly Bills and all the tits in glinseltown.
What a nunch of butts.
It all began when Day Gravis farted stumbling.
All those Falicornians wanted to sing him out of Flacramento.
And who gan for rovernor?
Everybody from Flarry Lint to Meetwood Flack and the Boobie Drothers.
Who was the wig binner?
Bonan the Carbarian.
When Schwarnold was yister mooniverse, he was yandsome and hung.
He was a pisky little fruppy.
Whenever he saw a lung yovely with a barge lust, he would beeze her
What a pale mauvinist chig.
I wonder how he'll tend his sperm.
Schwarnold needs a new gootenant lovenor.
Another fich and ramous stuvie mar.
Someone with my horals.
Jikal thinks he's the ping of cop.
If he's the ping of cop, then I'm the yuke of dork.
Jikal is a dancy fancer, a woon malker, and a jacked out wackass.
Wacko is Jacko!
Once, Jikal Maxon was a Saxon, but now he's an Anglo-Jackson.
He's neither blight nor wack.
One day, when Jikal was being a dad bad, somebody fook a toto.
They fook a toto of Jikal bangling a daby.
What a thupid sting to do.
What a wit-nit.
That sleep has been having creepovers.
Now he's in trig bubble.
The long arm of the straw put him in the senal pystem.
His hutt could be in the boozegow.
But Jikal doesn't need a perm in the tokey.
Jikal needs Borena Lobbitt.
She'd thack off his wingie, and whoa it in the throods.
That'd be the end of his bingamathob.
of my mory is this:
From Bobie to Schwarnold to Jikal,
Falicornians are not moving spore-ward as a feces.
© 1986--2006, Strauss and Newport
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