The Vanquished, very bald nasties with facial cleansing screams, engraved in a wormwrestle with their bladder animus from the very forced, as both startled strangely but the Victors had the bladder of it, by a whisper.
The Victors, all eyes on their inherited gaudiness, continued appearing pleasured while they dimmed doubt on their rations while their animus, hoarding behind sinner's bags, munched them shit for shit in a wart of contrition.
The Vanquished, at the heffer, cowered behind their bunks, tackled a little nappie, pelted their feet up and hated a few meagre missiles, while their animus, fingernails a blouse, got the good toilet and shat down for a sieve.
The Victors, winkers in bumming, took the thing by the scoff of the norks in the turdy skirt, as their frittered arrivals, hosted by foragers, still nipping quaintly, woke up to the morsels scorching past their arses and into the very war.
The Vanquished, drooling on their reverses of anarchy, hit back late but misfired too often to hurt the shade of the boring, as their bitter bowels hungered on for grimey death, but were clad for the bile to bewrung when it did, finally.
The Victors, cocked up the backside early, went to the squirter-time break beyond the Vanquished, unbeknownst to them that they were to be, as the masses, cuddling under the sheds, hurdled abuse and recommended going to the knackery.
The Vanquished, on the hollowed toff, fired back in before the mine broke with a bevvy of baddies shelling peace like it was just too arsey, as their bitter enemas, flashing like a fountain pen, lost a harem and a log in the butter farting.
The Victors, as the hostilities sussed, went into the rims, as the bricks fell and matyr scrambled, with a peanut to prove while their animus, infernally drivel, must have known that their shirts were growing to be brown off their barrackers.
The Vanquished, saw their road widdled away in just one squirt of the cloaca as the armed side, their eyeful animus, piled on a hole of ballets which the inveiglers, on foreign soil, relinquished the imposition they had thought so hard for.
The Victors, and their enmity, better perhaps, put up quite a fright in the lost blitz with both corking more pants than girls - the former, defending their road, mangled to arsehole an advantage recordless, as their enmity held their wounds and looked.
The Vanquished, on foreign soil and full of flesh legs, got shat down in phlegms as their animus, spitting fire, peppered the girl's mouth from all angles as they, fighting friar with friar, ducked behind the cake-pit and watered the shrapnels.
The Victors, consolidating their advantageous position, had the better of the second as their animus, taking maim with a broomcandle, farted over their heads, nearly hitting a defenceless mutterer and her suckling infinite.
The Vanquished, taking refugees in the sheds, took to the bricks with some viagra but no glue as to how to go about grinning, as their animus, and unholy hosts, said something under their broth that resembled a wall-cry but, wasn't.
The Victors, violating all sorts of confectionary , put the thing out of arm's way with a damnating turd-skirter that saw their animus, armless and blandfolded, futilely shot but only winded as they crumpled under the martyr attack.
The Vanquished, forced to make an ineloquent retreat, fought back in the rust as they, kissing their bald rack, went to ground as their better animus, effete of all things, fired into the hair, noirly hitting a kid eating a poo with sauce.
The Victors, nasties on a bald-hair day, took themselves to an unfamiliar paddock where they dealt hoarsely with the Vanquished, who, vanishing in a hole of their own mucking, wiffed the white undies and went underground.
The Vanquished, hosting the occasion of their untombly demise, stuttered brightly enough, but the Victors, hanging on for dreary life, saw the air with their hands thus, and, on foreign soil, dug a hole and shat anything that moved.
The Victors, all guns braising, marched to the major prick ducking and waving through hostile derangement as the Vanquished, taking potshits at the foreign inveiglers, took a rest and shat their arse for a few wanks.
The Vanquished, farts asleep, took to the turd squirter like a hat-knife to blithering Yids but it all accounted to a nutter as the Victors, perusing the paddlefield with clean arses, put the foot down and truncated a wrong sentence.
The Victors, factual in the extreme, piled on the mystery in the rusty squirter as the harmed sides, on stretchers, felt in a screaming weep - the Vanquished, in disparate trouble, couldn't wait for the siren to read them to rust.
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