"Privilege of being Blonde"
I can make my own damn money;
As a result, I can taste a man like golden honey,
Dripping the yummy ooze of sticky love on beastly buns;
This shrew ain't need no tame--our family, mommy runs.
It's not about closing my eyes and picturing dollar signs during the nature of sex;
It's about allowing love, getting a sexy guy to devour my jungle like a T-Rex.
"Jazzmin Flush (71)"
Jazzmin Flush did not recklessly rush back into the suave swing of things. Of course, her employment at the L.A. Derelict had been logically terminated since the coydog apprehension of Mister Merlin Pope--the entire, bizarre-laced scenario being a set-up by the crystal uncouth of modern media, greedily getting an amphetamine-fueled story by whatever unnecessary means to inspire readers into purchasing product--the esoteric kinda information that should be free.
Jazzmin Flush was cool with Rascal now too. Played fetch and Frisbee with the curvaceous coydog girl to keep her in shape during pregnancy; plus, scooped her poop out of the yard, her (Rascal) now residing with Donald Flush in a ghetto house with a Carolina-blue-hued, Astro Turf-like yard--very stylish for the time. Donald (Daddy) away on financial dealings with the sinister lady of his past, and Rascal fearing he might never return, but Jazzmin was all big sisterly, offering needful nurture. And just when it all seemed dandy, and that the wacky world was in high cotton, Rascal turned to Jazzmin's California gold and muttered: "If your Dad and me get married--I'll be like your mother or something."
"Big Orange versus Orange"
Seems like the rusty android, Peyton Manning, played 37 years for UT;
Nevertheless, it was Tee Martin who scored them to victory;
Regardless, back when dubbed "the Orangemen"
Syracuse was cooler than Sherilyn Fenn,
With a name not to blame,
Yet now: let the ORANGE have pigskin synergy and play for that hue's fame;
Indeed, the Orange Bowl will never be the same,
For braggadocio should be this color's claim.
"Having a werewolf pet"
Way middle down in Tennessee,
Where country music don't sing about true, American victory,
Hiding behind the strict corners of the flag,
Not knowing: the shimmering stars and lambent stripes give larger brag;
Alas, my pet werewolf stole my bone;
Thus, I hunt for America in the inhuman woods alone,
Finding my crop, and hunting the swift, Canadian goose
To bring back to my werewolf--I never let him loose.
Or is it me?
Duh, I'm so unaware of my dualistic destiny.
"Hayride Hallelujah"
The True Artist, forged from Himself,
Always hanging on Pre-Creation,
Existing due to a stubborn spirit of determination--ahem:
Alas, country lass is passionately ignited,
And man, if armed with couth and charm, can get her dance deliciously excited;
Thus, lovingly lasso the sicko, and unleash your best beast,
For a beautiful woman, so many, will submit and spark to firework heat--
Roll in them balls of thunder; plus, pour her purr some alcohol,
Knowing: Love-Trusting transcends the Garden's self-admiring fall.
"Jazzmin Flush (70)"
Months, even more into the future, had been like a dream, dealing with a concussion, her brain having bounced and banged against the skull, sinking Jazzmin Flush into a hypnotic state, like perpetually fed nerve pills from the mouth of a Pez Dispenser, Popeye the Sailor Man spitting the tranquil euphoria experienced by most Millennial Women; plus, they always mixed red wine with them for greater elation.
And Rascal's wily belly was blooming, pre-birthing a litter of roustabouts ranging wildly in her coydog womb, snacking on baby crackers from the inside, and infused with her cellular structure to be, at least, mildly obedient. Donald Flush was proud yet poignant, pointing philosophically to the eccentricities of life.
Thomas, well, always at Jazzmin's golden side as she healed and digested her mild disgust, not wanting to be a nasty, resentful big sister. That would suck for the little peckers and pansies on the way to Rascal's cupcake cleavage for some dog milk.
"Want some shrimp, Bubba?"
When I indulge in the shellfish shrimp--you must cook;
Otherwise, I'll have gastrointestinal movement like the Chess Piece, Rook,
Wending linear till expunged and out;
Hence, pasteurize the bacteria without a doubt;
Alas, I usually adhere to smoked, Alaskan salmon,
And I believe the Apocryphal Books to be canon.
Post Script:
Dude back in Arkansas during the Reagan 80's used to stay at all the rural parties till the end--this due to the axiomatic fact that all the heavy-set girls would stay till the end--the slim ones leaving early with the carnally-crazed dogs; anyway, he'd hook a big one every time he endured long partying hours involving Southern Comfort and Cheetos. Thus, they called him: BUBBA CHEESE. God Bless BUBBA CHEESE in this America.
