MANstrate

My moon will bloom in June July fourthcoming in the mouths of whores who do not scream, and will not mean a thing, to those who pay to see, that which will first bleed, take seed, and make me, make nothing into something I hate, that which becomes me, fate, that which will soon bait and take and rape innocent son's of Sam Adams, and spent madams with large handguns, shooting and uprooting and soothing the inbred pain of sexual gain, replacing a brain with lame self-sustained pain, in pleasuring thy unit of measure so miniscule that ridicule is not ridiculous, mischievious, or reprimandible, guiltless mandible, not even a handful of life, only a shitstain of strife, a Jerry Springer wife, a large bloody knife in the back of jack off jill and take her pills and run for the hills that which are alive with the smell of bulllshit, the truth that can't with, or without sociollogical grout, and that remains the reason children pout, and soccer moms shout, and beer must be stout, lies which lie, and byes which buy and die and mastcize and demoralized before the eyes of the living dead, the overfed, the overbred, and the need not be said. I, Fred, do solemnly swear, every fucking chance I get, away with murder that furthers my oppertunity to ejaculate, MANstrate, and delegate my prospecting prostate cancer, is the final answer, the question of indulgence, and the matter at hand, the matter of man, the species which can obliterate, humiliate, or propagate, but thinks judgement will await, a pearly gate, an oyster shell assumption that obviously abates, and negates the correct way, or erect gay, or your next day, the only way of life before death, before honoring thy father, you must fuck your mother, you must have no brother, no other lover, no book without cover of judgement, or imprisonment, of what is only meant for you, and made a rule, and askew unless rude, by meaning that herein, lies a heroine, lies a needle passing through and throughout, without need, with damning seed, with eyes that do nothing but bleed, do nothing which does not need, which cannot see the real me, only the one and lonely breed, of men without creed, with only greed, which seed and feed but fail to lead the troops back safely, only hastily into battle, like brokeback cattle, or a child who will surely tattle, tail tucked between the legs of the dregs, following ever so blindly, ever so kindly without a thought either way, either day in or day without original thoughtful thoughtlessness, but never the less programmed dress, stress and cowardice, and for this I stress the need for less guess, and more address, without becoming this, which became that bitch of a Country Time, lemon made, led astray, life of today.