Back my popular demand, about to expand the man's damn thoughts from grains of sand into great masses of land. Here to please, I fear disease -- I remind you the swine flu is more annoying than a haiku. End of that shit. My first ramble was oddly successful and here's the second one, which is more vicious than a pack of whore witches or sore bitches. Whoops. Sorry. Welcome, remember Hell's fun, you could sell rum or just unleash stellar puns. Time for gossip, there's lots of it, Jen and Scott are public, you gotta love it. Dave and me, make savory potpourri, vote for me to smoke some weed. I'm here to ramble -- I don't want bland, dull, damn bull! I have ample time to make history -- now sample my rhymes: Jen always asks for help from Wilbur. Honestly, the dude wants to kill her. But, Scott would disagree. It'd still be a mystery. Wilbur killing anyone? Not likely -- dude won't buy weed, though pot's pricey. According to my companion, I'm not a lady's first choice. I would sing to Josie, but I got the worst voice. My screeches are cursed noise. Whatever, Shvet is terrific at archery. I shoot my bow retardedly. I just started, see, but when I shoot ya in the heart you'll be . . . crap, that's a bit too violent. Complaint? Go ahead, file it. Playwright, rapper, comical figure, abominable singer, coughing up rhymes with methodical vigor. Back to gossip -- I hear Chet's dating Chad, Bret's dating Brad, turrets is a fading fad, the Mets are laying back, 'cause they din't make it to the playoffs: they got screwed like Mister Madoff. I got puns galore. My funds are poor but I have somethin' more. My music's bangin' on every London floor. A lot of men, say, Nick, can I have your autograph? I'm like, got a pen? I hope I did not offend -- finally, good luck to Scott and Jen.
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