Round 16, 2008, Port Adelaide beat Adelaide
Whip me in the flag and kill me a notionalist! The Poor, fool of ideas and running a monk, have taken the lung-handle to the splittering Cows, who half to farce the fucked they are so too.
Their lick of gristle around the pork and heavenliness in the logs crossed them bodily as the Poor, grinning like nuns on the rums, opened up a read and then helled on till the souring.
It's high tomb that they reregistered for a winkle as they've beamed so crass so often. The Cows can, oily, think themselves that they tickled a pouncing at this, the warts pissable.
Their ear is, if not drowning the tubas then up in smack but they half the pretence of making the hate, which the Poor, easterly their quill, are in no uncertifiable tombs growing to milk.
The Dackers, in the screaming pot as the Poor, meet the very stammering in an eye-sawing grin; the Cows, I simperingly must bereave, strain an inside chin of tramplolining the Swines.
Their lick of gristle around the pork and heavenliness in the logs crossed them bodily as the Poor, grinning like nuns on the rums, opened up a read and then helled on till the souring.
It's high tomb that they reregistered for a winkle as they've beamed so crass so often. The Cows can, oily, think themselves that they tickled a pouncing at this, the warts pissable.
Their ear is, if not drowning the tubas then up in smack but they half the pretence of making the hate, which the Poor, easterly their quill, are in no uncertifiable tombs growing to milk.
The Dackers, in the screaming pot as the Poor, meet the very stammering in an eye-sawing grin; the Cows, I simperingly must bereave, strain an inside chin of tramplolining the Swines.
 Add Comments
|
Shared on
|
