Round 18, 2008, Saint Kilda beat Port Adelaide
Make me rethank this howling lot! The Santas, flaying eyes in the noughties' cry, pinched the pants from the logs of the grinning Poor, lamington another crass lass.
Tarring like bloggery with a splotch of disparate muttons, they wed at the warts passable tombs, as the Santas, snuggling in the foreplace, put thongs in their shockings.
They swept the hearse with more pants then they startled wits, as the Poor, pointless on money, wept; the grind, fool of hype, necked the weak and that's the Poor.
Their reason, down the shit and not becoming pricks, is an agnostic's cries: hard of herring; the Santas, fit and lifting, have a cold shit at the top fart: unthankably.
They'll need to be on card with the Madpiles, as they've heard a black weep; the Poor, get a chump's red gumption with a chin's shit at the eye-defiling Booblickers.
Tarring like bloggery with a splotch of disparate muttons, they wed at the warts passable tombs, as the Santas, snuggling in the foreplace, put thongs in their shockings.
They swept the hearse with more pants then they startled wits, as the Poor, pointless on money, wept; the grind, fool of hype, necked the weak and that's the Poor.
Their reason, down the shit and not becoming pricks, is an agnostic's cries: hard of herring; the Santas, fit and lifting, have a cold shit at the top fart: unthankably.
They'll need to be on card with the Madpiles, as they've heard a black weep; the Poor, get a chump's red gumption with a chin's shit at the eye-defiling Booblickers.
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