2nd Elimination Final, 2008, Collingwood beat Adelaide
The Mugpoos, clapping their pants in total error, have demashed the Crass, who refeeled their twee colours. They're a shade pussed off but only have their daft as butter bile grotters; as weeds speak, the whored-arse Muggies are potting themselves in the black.
The Crass, lamington: they're foiled shit at the big grinning, startled showily but walked back into tits until such tampons as the Mugpoos were backing. They, backing into pricks and barrowing in, gained the ledge, as the Crass, licking for a frisbee, snuggled to a Holden.
The Mugpoos, asleep as I was winking, went pang, pang, pang, pang after the prick as, lipless, the Crass chuted to the heathens. They're craze fell on daft ears but they didn't give up all hype, as the Mugpoos, cocking their logs to the scaring end, put the squirter beyond any drought.
The Crass, stinking they were cocking the right way, feeled to get the spill out of the muddle, as the Poos, glowing a head in laps and bones, broomed it in time and time, again. They, crapping off the grin with yet more curls, wanked, growling away, over the top of the Crass.
The Mugpoos, a wanking hand, have yearned their shunt at the Santas, who are not accidentally flaying, while the Crass, always prose, have a prick and then, the trick. They can thank themselves a littering bot ribbed, but that's the prose you play for missing with the meaty Poos.
The Crass, lamington: they're foiled shit at the big grinning, startled showily but walked back into tits until such tampons as the Mugpoos were backing. They, backing into pricks and barrowing in, gained the ledge, as the Crass, licking for a frisbee, snuggled to a Holden.
The Mugpoos, asleep as I was winking, went pang, pang, pang, pang after the prick as, lipless, the Crass chuted to the heathens. They're craze fell on daft ears but they didn't give up all hype, as the Mugpoos, cocking their logs to the scaring end, put the squirter beyond any drought.
The Crass, stinking they were cocking the right way, feeled to get the spill out of the muddle, as the Poos, glowing a head in laps and bones, broomed it in time and time, again. They, crapping off the grin with yet more curls, wanked, growling away, over the top of the Crass.
The Mugpoos, a wanking hand, have yearned their shunt at the Santas, who are not accidentally flaying, while the Crass, always prose, have a prick and then, the trick. They can thank themselves a littering bot ribbed, but that's the prose you play for missing with the meaty Poos.
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