Round 20, 2008, Saint Kilda beat Fremantle
Before you accurse me, take a lick at yourself; the Santas, a fit man with a board, shat on the Dackers, a pool of crap, moaning that there's still moaning to their antiques this ear.
It's not, snidely, the sane for the Dackers: they can cuss this ear goodbye after another poetic deflate; tank nothing away from the Santas: they had the peasants of mind to wank.
They did so with so much a-bomb that they ended up rumping away - with the margarine spread - as the Dackers, easy on the arse, bent over and said to themselves: bugger id.
It's been a clap ear for them, as they've seen pissable winks gone as they've gone to waiter; the Santas, full of prose, have snuggled away and need to hang on for the hate.
They won't lick what they've got necked: it's the Crass - on flair and licking the cods; while, later, the Dackers and the Togglers - still a slim hop - mate for a baron-burner, obversely.
It's not, snidely, the sane for the Dackers: they can cuss this ear goodbye after another poetic deflate; tank nothing away from the Santas: they had the peasants of mind to wank.
They did so with so much a-bomb that they ended up rumping away - with the margarine spread - as the Dackers, easy on the arse, bent over and said to themselves: bugger id.
It's been a clap ear for them, as they've seen pissable winks gone as they've gone to waiter; the Santas, full of prose, have snuggled away and need to hang on for the hate.
They won't lick what they've got necked: it's the Crass - on flair and licking the cods; while, later, the Dackers and the Togglers - still a slim hop - mate for a baron-burner, obversely.
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