Broth of Man
Francesca opted to not. She didn’t know what to when and who to how. And where? But she knew it was cool. So she said she’d have two, please. And opted all the hot ones.
“Oh and extra Jimbo on the side. The biggest, the bester and est.”
Whom and whose? Wither whence? Hup two-three-four. Hup two-three-four.
Stand up! In the name of sexual activities–prenuptial penile proclivities. Promiscuous perversions, you sweet and sour pussycatimus cantankeronomous. Rubber Rhinoceros. Grab the the bull by it’s hornblower, you pantomiminous polymered butter hole. Read em’ and weeps. Whip. Weeps harder! Buggard!
You sorry sack of seed something, summers after spring cling. You all the other instances of neosporin spleen steam.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
I counting all my dates. I sleep when eyes awake. I bitter sack and ice my back when runny tummy ache.
“Francesca, you too much TVs. You glue your eyes to your demise and grope the silver screen!”
“Aww moms–your probs! You Calvinistic sobs. Your mind should grow and wrap around the sheets of bob and bob.”
The can! The can! The way the world began. We made ourselves and somethin’ else and blah blah–
Squeeze the hand
Broth of man