Round 21, 2008, Port Adelaide beat Melbourne
In the spit of Post-mortemism, I bring you this exclusive forced-hand repartee: the Poor, wanting wretches but heaving nuns, get a grope on the Emos, and that's a real mirthful!
Their teets chattering like braisers, their arses falling out of their heads, they went to the wally but the wally was wry, and so, the Poor, wit like the drowning poor, sunk the bots in, shirtkickers.
Their bots, muddy as a piddle on a tart road, erred like elle but, didn't we just leave it? no biddy knows, but for the Emos, damned and art, a lass like it is fart from what they would grieve.
It's spit on for their ear, as it's been one doleful grin after a nutter and mystery for the fans, which, fannily a sniff, is more or lass, the sane for the Poor, who've gone from bored to this.
The Cankers, always up for a spit and perish, give the Poor, short on groins, a real headwank; while the Emos will be praying for bride when the Ticklers blend them over, juts for fin.
Their teets chattering like braisers, their arses falling out of their heads, they went to the wally but the wally was wry, and so, the Poor, wit like the drowning poor, sunk the bots in, shirtkickers.
Their bots, muddy as a piddle on a tart road, erred like elle but, didn't we just leave it? no biddy knows, but for the Emos, damned and art, a lass like it is fart from what they would grieve.
It's spit on for their ear, as it's been one doleful grin after a nutter and mystery for the fans, which, fannily a sniff, is more or lass, the sane for the Poor, who've gone from bored to this.
The Cankers, always up for a spit and perish, give the Poor, short on groins, a real headwank; while the Emos will be praying for bride when the Ticklers blend them over, juts for fin.
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