2nd Semi-Final, 2008, Saint Kilda beat Collingwood
The Santas, matinee-idols dressed as lamingtons, have dashed out a plate of shower gropes to the rinsing Mugpoos; the former advise the prim where they'll lick to shave a laugh while the ladder can pit their ear in mouthballs, put their fat up and plopper for the snoozing ahead and crave for the last tear.
The Mugpoos, a sanitary Scatman as their chef, were licked in for a taut tissue in the farcical banana, as their vowels, an ungnome for a cook, and they swamped the weed; they were cooking the goats but had a spiteful plebian in their back half, as the Santas, affected, put the sex-painters on the board.
The Santas, pulling away in the sconed squirter, went to the munching with a heady margarine. The Mugpoos, well behind, couldn't cock their rugs through the lamplights for anything. They, eating orangutans, licked at the bird and fooled that they had the belly-laugh. The Santas, thanking like wankers, had the bun-fights of a pimple grin-plinth.
The Mugpoos, in the lost heart, went to the will but the will was awry as the Santas, fit and jelly, went cocking their logs on every paste. They, so much the more disparate, went in like maniacs dispossesed as the Mugpoos, as loco as a republican, cocked every which way but through the laplights and cussed their ear goodbye.
The Santas, nervous, grow onto farce the Gawkers, fat and defiling, in a prim grin for a spit in the Granny, as old as two mitts herself, while the vanished, bald wowsers at the blessed, look to baulk lips for the next snogging. The Santas, mutterings to rue, will, you'd harp, give the smut-arsers a cock in the unmunchables.
The Mugpoos, a sanitary Scatman as their chef, were licked in for a taut tissue in the farcical banana, as their vowels, an ungnome for a cook, and they swamped the weed; they were cooking the goats but had a spiteful plebian in their back half, as the Santas, affected, put the sex-painters on the board.
The Santas, pulling away in the sconed squirter, went to the munching with a heady margarine. The Mugpoos, well behind, couldn't cock their rugs through the lamplights for anything. They, eating orangutans, licked at the bird and fooled that they had the belly-laugh. The Santas, thanking like wankers, had the bun-fights of a pimple grin-plinth.
The Mugpoos, in the lost heart, went to the will but the will was awry as the Santas, fit and jelly, went cocking their logs on every paste. They, so much the more disparate, went in like maniacs dispossesed as the Mugpoos, as loco as a republican, cocked every which way but through the laplights and cussed their ear goodbye.
The Santas, nervous, grow onto farce the Gawkers, fat and defiling, in a prim grin for a spit in the Granny, as old as two mitts herself, while the vanished, bald wowsers at the blessed, look to baulk lips for the next snogging. The Santas, mutterings to rue, will, you'd harp, give the smut-arsers a cock in the unmunchables.
