Watch the cultured inbred zoological garden that is the child molesting GGT English voice, of all hues, here in the centre of phukkwittery, The Smokistan.
They no thing. Void violating GGT. A den of experted, exported, imported vice, no wonder it is getting demolished, the GGT Centre Ring of ringed and ring stung oratory can you hear the criesof the helpless whelps, farmed and groomed to fouled appetites. What does the GGT do apart from attack the helpless?
They are bred in eschewal schooling like money hunting Phukked D’Witzz
at a drawers down credit gathering schakelogocal, untamed heathen shammed, shaham,
in blacked feathers shaman, debt and rentier fest.
Tikka tikka, the long sought instrument of our shortened
days awaits.
Tick tick IR tikka tikka fused.
As I wrote on your rotten corpse, paddy fields and bog.
Where in my toil I have never met you, faced face to face, lucre infected schemed
dullard sloth?
Watch out you heathen scripted GGT English encrypted.
Can you seen the speeling must takes I have wondered with
false names?
I held here, her hand in my main, laboured and borne, broken
with toil, I let her fade away as careless as one who never fails. What should
have been within my caress, gentled in the sweetness of her scented mane, pine
and jasmine. A lasted gasp as we fell asleep and she seized my breaking start,
a fright, an alert, an alarmed moment. United movement. Forever the command of
what I thought I knew and realised, false from fall, was never as my miniscule
appreciation could apprehend. She soothed my rage and for the first time I
slept untroubled in the depths of our quivering crest.
Can I repay the debt, the interest of your eyes upon me, the
deeds? As the bluebells grew under my joy, I never thought there would be
someone to capital the beauty of the flowers in the glades of my life, daffodils,
crocus, dandelion, sweet garlic, the spectrum of the wonders of the woods, but
you came.
Tickk tikka tick a tick, the stepped wheel of the sky chases
around the slowing thermodynamics of this wold. Where no thing is brought under
husbandry, the cold wold. I dreamed, streamed in the cooling radiation of the
utter falseness that is the given down our throat.
What is the incredulity that the false educated fools do not
understand about the fate of our people? Where ever the rains, reins and reigns
fall the killers know their days are numbered. Yahwehist sleekit killers.
“Such were the funeral rites of Hector, tamer of horses.”
