Bad bat shit on the river. Alive in the canoe he breaks wind forgiving those that washed him when he was an infant. We smelt the fire from miles away and it gave us a break from the ghastly chopping of bovine necks. She really stood for us and lent for us and cooked for us. It was over when the raven sung and shot the carnival bloke.
Flappy fire live a little, you think he got it good? I never would have recognised the banshee if it wasn’t for the reflection of the stained glass system carerring amongst the fibreboard. We smoked. Have you been planted in the ground? Roots and all? Pints of blood and little marsupiulas flatten for the umpteenth time, all for the great deity. Push your face underground and forget about breathing. Its a lie.