Lily root, gully root, belly root we go deep bababa ba see
we enter from the autofret each illustrious dictum: 

Turned to the light, we are alternately a blot or a blank. Though we’ve been born already in another place, across the welcoming field we run all mad sweet and langley. 

Our heads come off in a channel zip-around-zip. If you play with us, still we’ll love you double, give you the kosmetikmesse in immediate post-mortem ritual. 

Virtue bids the rash gazer a box in which to push the old hand: 

I’m not much to look at from the outside but when opened I become a varied cavalcade of overtly realistic genitalia. 

This is it by which I met you, said hello, moved as candidly as when I bite into a pear. 

On the field we took off our shirts and practiced the little mule hoist double-time, triple. 
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