Goldmunds Slut Fiasco.

This poem is a whore with a wilted cunt, Spent, bent, sagging tits, buttered, drooling. Yeah... ever had a raging gang bang in a fit of youths sexual inspiration, left afterwards to pout over the grating humor of having a twat that queef's like a collapsed rectum? Ah, no? Well thats the condition of this poem, and folks, me and my compadres are indeed well spent-- altogether drained, satisfied with being sadistic and amazingly naughty. I feel no shame, this momentary discharge my claim to fame. I feel no shame, this momentary discharge my claim to fame. I feel no shame, this momentary discharge my claim to fame. All in all, we can now declare this limp slut dead, fucked to death till creamy shaft sweat was all she had left to bleed sputtering and uttering her final whimper, body imprinted in the mattress like a chalked body in the middle of some destitute alley. This poem is a whore with a wilted cunt, Spent, bent, sagging tits, buttered, drooling.