Consider the implications, implied in your summations, bereft of any measure, of any future winning pleasure.

Consider the implications, implied in your summations, bereft of any measure, of any future winning pleasure.

You think you got the rhyme, the time, the sign, the sublime – well lemme tell you that this nation of constipation erupting from your Platonic, moronic, buffonic colonic leaves us wracking our minds over the lacking crack-head tactics of the ass-ticks stuck to your fantastic plastic, spastic glass dick, shattered in the mouth of your mom’s metal grille – she can’t get her fill, ’cause your Philosophy lacks sophistry.

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