Meat Man Metronome
Tear me apart form your twinkle toes and pterodactyl harpsichords. I've never had that liquor licked off my lips. Forget it. I was out of town when you were locally misanthropic of all the times
you washed your
face pressed to the panorama of a smog town bird bath. No way could I index knuckle rings this early on in the caloric counterbalance much less the majority check list and autistic labcoats cluttering my Tupperware.
Teeth before biting
eggplants and transplant black and gold bleeders scrape more than shiver. Either way, you can't blame me for forging cheerio sounds muzzled by you chest hair.
The last morsels
molded in your deciduous neck brush. Most likely it was carbon fiber and gluten free. Any way you look at it, nothing realy fits as much as you on top
of my body.