The Poor, in my inestimable exclamations, give themselves a shit in the arm with a big grin over the Cankers, bitching as they slip themselves a fatty, who brew a shit at a top feel.

The Cankers, remembering their millstone-sphincter, racked intestines around the protest as the Poor, swarthy in the pickets and praying like many lairs, got the thing and pashed it up.

They, famished, offed their yearn with their breasts heaving and their pulverisers thrusting over the Cankers, who, mushed it, dug ther own grieve - it was as gravy as, sweet rants.

The Cankers, prattling to sting their grin, have, nuffers, had another good seasick plopper - which can't be said for the Poor, who've slopped baldly after fooling the affects of the granny.

They'll be a hindful, in their arse, for all crumblers next time around the shun - we, shrill, see; shinier than hat, the Cankers go to the hobo-shitter to greet the Swines for saddening deaf.

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September 1st 2008 @ 14:11

Posted By: Norm - Category: The Kangaroos, The Power, The Results, Round 22, 2008

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Round 15, 2008, North Melbourne beat Port Adelaide

Eat shorts and dial! The Cankers, twitching for a wink, have etched out the Poor by nighly the slimiest margarine on offal. It's a piefull resalt for the Poor who have sniffled that many crass lasses over the coarse of the ear.

They, a shallow of the licky slide they wear last ear, scream to have a tonal lick of confluence right across the pillock. The Cankers, not intactly brooming with any ether, are one of those times that get the chop done.

This one, one they wearily noded, couldn't have arrived at a shandier time: they wearily needed one. Lick nothing else. The Poor, on the hope and with their chins, just fell shit of the scare that would have cornered them the pants.

As I creep, saying: "The Poor are forked,". It's cartons for them, but no spanner to go with the word. The Cankers, scratchy as piggery, will need to impoverish on their affects. Painfully, they lick crass in the coy pastes.

The Pudmuddlers, top fart nancies, have a thong for the Cankers: they just can't shack them, so felch out! The Poor, bereft of many, will have a liphole bottle when they tickle the manured Cows. It's the shirtdown, papal!