The throne made of ivory creaks, its frame is porous, worn through by fat bodies, when people had enough of the barking of the great poets, pianists br/>drink the culture out of buckets
and tell the people about lilacs
even though they stink of piss.
The seeds drip from the cot,
down into the small censer
and mixes with the scent of innocence,
the wine that hates little boys,
and loves them at the same time.
As long as you guard your tongue and what
is raging behind walls
In the end it's forgiven as a faux pas.
The naked flesh rubs against the table leg,
Licks its fill in the ass.
You vomit the look into your cleavage
/>the one who has enough.
Be it cleavage, be it wealth.
Perfume cuts through all the pestilence,
that flows out of pores as a stench,
and allows itself to be fucked by poverty sst!
The lap warms itself on dead mutts,
after a woman has been mounted,
and untied by the hair,
man is allowed to rock her in shame.
As if she had the snake animal
dipped into her thighs
and dictated lust to Adam,
since he simply doesn't need love.
She stole an apple,
Because knowledge is human,
and the will without chains does not therefore eat small children.
The search for the goal of things,
can be so entertaining.
Culture , what man builds,
even makes black gold appear.

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