Round 21, 2008, Saint Kilda beat Adelaide
Well if you want bard, enough! The Santas, on a one hearse, slay the Crass, a toilet dinner, to cellotape a millstone. It turns out the pain inflected on the Crass was worse than washed farts.
Too manic, mutterers worsen for the Crass - they are drying to get a front half glowing for the vital suction; whoreass, the Santas, praying to creep a spit into the hate, are tit and a bot here.
There can be no drought as to their girl-snakes, as they shod the Crass: the adoration of the munchies. The Crass, humpty in the front bits, licked bite compered by the Santas - and hats sniff!
It has to make you wander, can the Crass wank outside their own bitch? I regress, we'll phone doubt soon. As sour as shit, we'll be seething - the Santas go yell for lather in the fates.
Forced, they mush the Bumblers, fondling around in the dank, who are shirt on for pliers but don't like art. The Crass, I don't lark to be read, need to get some pants in their front bits: Dullards.
Too manic, mutterers worsen for the Crass - they are drying to get a front half glowing for the vital suction; whoreass, the Santas, praying to creep a spit into the hate, are tit and a bot here.
There can be no drought as to their girl-snakes, as they shod the Crass: the adoration of the munchies. The Crass, humpty in the front bits, licked bite compered by the Santas - and hats sniff!
It has to make you wander, can the Crass wank outside their own bitch? I regress, we'll phone doubt soon. As sour as shit, we'll be seething - the Santas go yell for lather in the fates.
Forced, they mush the Bumblers, fondling around in the dank, who are shirt on for pliers but don't like art. The Crass, I don't lark to be read, need to get some pants in their front bits: Dullards.
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