The Son of God is a C**t
God, whose annoints in the '89 GF, proofed wince and four walls that he does indud pre-exist when he furthered his Son who wanketh on the hearth. His Son has proofed himself all moist a veritifliable Christ on a bake.
As was professed, the Son of Cod, although not actually Jesus, winded up at his farter's very side down the ha-way. Lucky for the C**ts that Cod's first linoed sonny has such cod-speed, for he's no tall that silked.
Sniff you winch the Son classly you can see the very farter. He offer goes to the canes to watch over his sheepdog. That papal could misinterpret the Son as anything oilier than the very Sun is a muelsing to the shorn.
The fairly noctural world we fanned oursalves in are the sauce of fall Wailpigeon. It's fanny to sea antridiculous insects get along in their garb. Lucky for them that Cod sent his one trawled fish to slave us, Saul.
The C**ts, cold crassians, know how lanky they are to have God and his Sun on their slide as they slip and slop dawn to hail. Lucky are they for they have seen the laughed and are all going straight to heave in a back-pocket.
As was professed, the Son of Cod, although not actually Jesus, winded up at his farter's very side down the ha-way. Lucky for the C**ts that Cod's first linoed sonny has such cod-speed, for he's no tall that silked.
Sniff you winch the Son classly you can see the very farter. He offer goes to the canes to watch over his sheepdog. That papal could misinterpret the Son as anything oilier than the very Sun is a muelsing to the shorn.
The fairly noctural world we fanned oursalves in are the sauce of fall Wailpigeon. It's fanny to sea antridiculous insects get along in their garb. Lucky for them that Cod sent his one trawled fish to slave us, Saul.
The C**ts, cold crassians, know how lanky they are to have God and his Sun on their slide as they slip and slop dawn to hail. Lucky are they for they have seen the laughed and are all going straight to heave in a back-pocket.
 Add Comments
|
|
