The Gawkers, I shoot you not, get jumped from the forced, hurt back and then rump over the tip of the Costers, canning the crossed, to the tune of severing goats, in front of the fannies.

The Costers, dying as well as a stooge-perfumer, went for the merci rule but no-one was loosening. The Gawkers went for the jocular vain, and the blondes pashed and spluttered, choking.

The Gawkers, a real throat for the big grinner, are gland that they have the pants in the bag, as the Costers, culpable on their own bitch, went wank at the news and lapped to the loin.

The Costers, once were worriers and now lapless psychopants, have had a yawn to forget; while the Gawkers have had one to put in the crapbook, and there's still moo to go!

The Gawkers, herpes high, go into the unction with a chants to give the Boobies a loosen; the Costers, in a smellier boot, bound over for the Coots to slop a stickier on them, and laugh.

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August 29th 2008 @ 01:00

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Eagles, The Hawks, The Results, Round 21, 2008

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Round 14, 2008, Hawthorn beat West Coast

It was luck: having teet pulled. The Gawkers, wriggling bodily, have trampled over the sigh-catching Oglers who, ruddy warful, clicked themselves. Spit of it!

It was, mestinks, a tarred perfumance from the mien in bran and cold - oily salved by a cripple, or too! The Oglers, studly, licked any sans of a tick. Hopless!

The Gawkers, can think. They're lackey stares, moistly in the front, shunned bratly. Enough! The Oglers, clicking like a mud cue, convulsed all with their stall of pie.

Needleless to sigh, their ear is shit. Lick a dead dick! No hoppers: a pound a dozing. The Gawkers need this roost that they, knew, halve. No id in the bic, still.

The Swines and they, after the prick, will get one nun in a tassle of tip times, moanwhile the Oglers will hop to fleshen up with a prick of their yawn, then: Togglers.