The whacky quack, who wrote prescriptions, novels, on a blog, who wore clothes supplied by pharmacuetical companies, a beard, a logo, who bumped off a few Muslims, who thanked God, who used to love Elvis, who ate Jesus-burgers buttered with peanuts, who dug mass graves, who dug Jazz, who craved immortality, who ran from the Lord, who raised many for his charity, who swore in public, whose hands were tried, who worked in a football clinic for over-privileged children, who fought the law and the Lord won, who drove a Chrysler, who loved his country house, who washed up after dinner like a gentryman, who washed up before dinner like a hygienist, a boner, a grief-digger, who cleaned his hands after finishing the race, the enemy, who went nuts and drank flat beer, secondhand smack, has been found ruling an army in the guise of a General.
Stylists for the Doctor are pleased with his new look, his new smell, his new ardour, his new apparel, his new gunsmith, his new shovel, his new sallow crave, his tickling time bum, his sense of stale, and have praised his manners, his ettiquette, his practice, his posture, his hymning voice, his advice, his orders, and have laughed off calls he was ever a doctor, a medicinal practitioner, an educated manager of disease.
"Hahaha," they said, smiling, waving, bending over backwards, trying on a new hat, new undies, new Coke, new car, new stereo, new microwave, new TV, new baby.
"We're not happy about our bodies," the dysmorphic dead have whispered in the rear of the perceptive, the recepticals, the holier-than-hell, the morbidly obtuse, the trendy and inwardly mobile.
"Do I look like a New Age guy?" the brutal SNAG mused, wondered, pondered, all the while brushing his bushy beard, fiddling, playing, with his celloist, his conductor, his nurse, his assistant, losing his patience, his virtue, his vice, his hammer, his suckle.
You be the judge.
I'll just be trying.
Stylists for the Doctor are pleased with his new look, his new smell, his new ardour, his new apparel, his new gunsmith, his new shovel, his new sallow crave, his tickling time bum, his sense of stale, and have praised his manners, his ettiquette, his practice, his posture, his hymning voice, his advice, his orders, and have laughed off calls he was ever a doctor, a medicinal practitioner, an educated manager of disease.
"Hahaha," they said, smiling, waving, bending over backwards, trying on a new hat, new undies, new Coke, new car, new stereo, new microwave, new TV, new baby.
"We're not happy about our bodies," the dysmorphic dead have whispered in the rear of the perceptive, the recepticals, the holier-than-hell, the morbidly obtuse, the trendy and inwardly mobile.
"Do I look like a New Age guy?" the brutal SNAG mused, wondered, pondered, all the while brushing his bushy beard, fiddling, playing, with his celloist, his conductor, his nurse, his assistant, losing his patience, his virtue, his vice, his hammer, his suckle.
You be the judge.
I'll just be trying.
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