Man in sky discovers lubricant

This is what I’m writing a rectal poem.
Here it goes, twisting, then staunch.
What I took in I was loosed of,
poor Baptists, and gathering here
they stole in the dark my sheddings.
Poor things, I say, who’ll take those.
Sloping foreheads and four fingers.
Drown the babes and mock their pose,
tell their blood about their psalms.
What feels good is ungood, they know
or cogitate so high on lonesome God.

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~ by Jeremy on May 26, 2012.

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