(AppreCJ8n, 0.27: D'Yer?)
Ceejay, d'Yer luv my greenincisor'd englishgrin? My cock when it's soft?
Smoked soft, sloshed soft, when i'm procellous prissy lice,
blusterpackt prick of human storms? Well, d'Yer?
Will Yer
lovegive
upunder the wait of my giftednesswhichbears no gifts?
Andohate my breaktime death for love of the
coughtragic shemozzle sch-mokin embertween it
and the bother of birththeboafer? Well, d'Yer?
If Y'do Y'duh!' self slurs on self, but d'Yer?
WillYou appreesh tho' rarely turtletongue - i'm a boxingday talc-
er - my polkazitty, swittyrump? Wake ta thelethal pillow's headhump-
ful of me, mifullon mephitic gravestridor? Ah, Cee's a'ready
bleachcreeked the starchy
blitch, atillagirl domestosgoddess in my unsanitary wan fantasy
of detergentilesse. She's fired marchin' orders ta my march 'arey
borders, attamoy
unexciting armies, millingtarrying crampaigns
of sloths in two or three towtrucks and, um, possumssable, odd.
But d'Yer still cherish mongins 'vec me, ma Chérie? Well, d'Yer?
And not numberknot undiscoverymuchdays a facture of slackness,
don't debase this love 'pon the quan-
tifactually aghastardisin' debasis o' ghastly theories like failure, orfactsof
slack qualibre will become failurefactor's allure.