<fayk
don;t hurt yourself like a retard
go see daft punk
they're playing the trash fence
> daft punk playing the trash fence
a schadenfreude us18rico by proxy wiretap cult
has siezed the oval orifice at our jewish buttstuff temple in D.C. all the infidels seem unarmed
and gushing butjoos muhbloodlines spam
Once upon a morning dreary, half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched the "Daily Herald" lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning, wond'ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning, fiercely running as to war;
"Who is this," I asked myself, "who runs as if he's off to war?
Just a loony, nothing more."
Striding down the street, he ran there, trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer, he was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer racing toward some distant store;
"You're a Jogger," I exclaimed, "and not some grocer with a store!"
Quoth the Jogger, "To the core."
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly, and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt and the running shorts he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was taking, and from grunts that he was making,
I felt sure the must be aching from the labors of his chore;
"Does your body ache," I asked, "each time that you perform this chore?"
Quoth the Jogger, "Ev'ry pore."
Round the block he was now veering, then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a state most people would deplore;
Ev'ry garment he was wearing now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing signs of toothmarks by the score;
"What on earth," I asked, "has caused these signs of toothmarks by the score?"
Quoth the Jogger, "Dogs galore."
Suddenly, it started raining, and I thought he'd be complaining
Of conditions unforeseen that Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping, and sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping on the pavement bruised and sore;
"Give it up," I pleaded, as he lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, "Let it pour."
On and on, he did continue, straining ev'ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again until each passing was a bore;
"Hey," I asked him, "aren't you done now? Surely this can't be much fun now;
Fifteen miles or more you've run now since I've been here, keeping score:
Isn't that enough?" I uttered, as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, "Just one more."
Then it was that I did see there just how old he seemed to be there;
Ancient was his weathered face with wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly must be fifty-five or more;
"What's your age?" I asked, expecting he'd say fifty-five or more;
Quoth the Jogger, "Twenty-four."
<ghey <ghey
but the mad hatter dug dante out of that dulce pit
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flicker like you are twitterpated on spacebook
make yugoslavia great again
han solo ruined the planet truths
dicorcee mirror (eecrovid)
willcock can be batjoto this time
maybe if we buy enough jew bricks from ebot
we can have a bbq later
the asspuppet theater is working
i can hear willcock;s watch ticking in my butthole
we are ascending the sorosanon
omg
moar proof han solo ruined the planet
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