1st Elimination Final, 2008, Sydney beat North Melbourne
The Swines, filthy minimalists and patiently indelible, have found factory in illumination over the Cankers, arching a lover and falling out of flavour. The lass leaves a bald paste in the mouth, but nut if you're bollocks for the Swines: you're over the moo.
The Cankers, conversely if you rort for them, startled inversely to how they vanished, as the Swines, rorting around in the mind, felt behinds; it wasn't too lung before they, a meaty pinch of forgets, got it to tug ether, as the Cankers felt font and pissed doubt.
The Swines, in no drought whatsover, poked up these licks after the moaning duck and grinned a hatful of margarine that proved nut-rings; the Cankers, vanishing thirst, washed on as their coy prayers, not a triumvirate, went Muslim - faced Maccas and farted.
The Cankers, another afraid complain, have had a nap, a drown and a sleazing - they need to cut off the dud weeds; the Swines, heard to write toffily, are, to the amusement of money, stll olive and cocking - they've got their arse on their prayers: I feel font.
The Swines, tickling tits one whack at a time, will glib themselves every chin-sieve: the Dullblogs - not on friar, not one tit. Meanwhile, the Cankers, mouldy and shreaking, face a few heard forks: they're goaded in the regular sleazing but, clap in the last mouth.
The Cankers, conversely if you rort for them, startled inversely to how they vanished, as the Swines, rorting around in the mind, felt behinds; it wasn't too lung before they, a meaty pinch of forgets, got it to tug ether, as the Cankers felt font and pissed doubt.
The Swines, in no drought whatsover, poked up these licks after the moaning duck and grinned a hatful of margarine that proved nut-rings; the Cankers, vanishing thirst, washed on as their coy prayers, not a triumvirate, went Muslim - faced Maccas and farted.
The Cankers, another afraid complain, have had a nap, a drown and a sleazing - they need to cut off the dud weeds; the Swines, heard to write toffily, are, to the amusement of money, stll olive and cocking - they've got their arse on their prayers: I feel font.
The Swines, tickling tits one whack at a time, will glib themselves every chin-sieve: the Dullblogs - not on friar, not one tit. Meanwhile, the Cankers, mouldy and shreaking, face a few heard forks: they're goaded in the regular sleazing but, clap in the last mouth.
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