you look like a hamburger at a swap meet
and there is no one what will cheese you
let's let bourgognes be bourgognes at last
you can cease to call me "stymied torque"
a cohort of solo cups less for to chortle
a jigger but for us to eye where-but-fore
moribund dribbles of pescetarian tears let's
get to licking your crud my "barnacle bill"
gobsmacked to take on testing inedia
doesn't your muscle deserve one more
whiff of washed rind pressed thru butterscrim
by loving biddy with rinse over wedding band
to lift up left goblet to tow-headed health and tidings whilst
gimlet-eyed all else knew the middle one hid the gibberish