Some of my gifts are god given. This rod, splinters like plank walks after dank talks bout the pale men who just ain’t gods. As bosoms burst with intent to quell a thrist, I became parched. I just need a happy meal to hold back my urges for perversion. So much I’m examining the cavern queens to the point my vertebrae became arched. At these heights my spike is in need of something vampiric. You know the right mouth that’s bright as a lighthouse with a camp near it. We’re the waves can wash upon my scepter like, I like stirring. I found that many don’t like sharing. But often times the beanstalk that queens want never grew from some magic beans. There’s proportions from genetic assortments that reverberate like trampolines. These surfaces are known to twerk a bit. Fleshy palpitations that cause salivation. With my sword I wish to do battle atop the finest chattel from behind like shadow.