The Songstone

Hope you can fuck me often, Mr. Big. My little sweet vagina needs a dig. (我的小逼不能没有大先生)

Shuttle, muddle, fiddle, shell - I'm going to learn this terrible /l/

It's minus 5 outside: leathers, tough shoes; a warmer bed awaits in Dongba's stews.

A whispering day, alone with thoughts and whisky. Tomorrow call a wench: I'm feeling frisky.

Thinking, smooth, fathom, tooth. Other things are soothing truth

Fail, vale, effervescence It's very far from Volga's pheasants

The Land Tax for the nations' pain: rent to the treasury the claim William Hogarth Marriage A-la Mode 2: The Tete a Tete  1745 The National Gallery, London

what I'm really missing is a little bit more of Miss Ng

The Sisters of the sacred well be damned: a bottle, glass, some heat and steady hand

A Cameron, a Trump, a Sarkozy: unhappy world of assholocracy

Add cinnamon and honey, fruit and cloves; a winter's night in Bacchanalian groves

I didn't mean to copy! , wailed the boy Cut n paste from Wiki? Just being coy.

People, piddle, puddle or hell, there's a lot of work in that dark /l/

Dear R, I remember with great pleasure our last meeting at my grandmother's, and her dropping the cake on you. In the Christmas spirit I wish to inform you that I shall come to Shanghai next weekend, and I extend an invitation to dinner on Saturday night. I am aware that our relationship has not been entirely cordial for a while, and trust that you will put this down as much to your silver-spooned snobbery as my rough etiquette. I am sure you will be busy that evening with other glittering lights from the commercials world, but I felt that not to at least proffer the invitation could be construed as discourteous. Sincerely, and Merry Christmas, Simon

A honeyed voice, exquisite lips, my perfect little fellatrix

Financial capital's most willing slave: Rebekah's rider, PR's 'Call me Dave'

There was n old windbag called Shuttle who wasn't particularly subtle. N 'actual poet' by name though her oeuvre was lame; her verses were worth fully fuck all.

Where is Neruda now to sing of you,  Comrade Vallejo? His would be an apt  voice to ennoble, know your fire, as few others could (I am not one, wrapped in cotton wool of Art for its own sake, without the balls to brave the Fascist cannons as you have done). They'll kill you, Comrade, make an icon of resistance, buy you - Mammon's clutches of billionaires: the stooge Piñera! (a parasite from this, or any, era), sucking the weal, and old spiders who brood  voraciously. The darkness of a day elapsed, a day nourished with our sad blood, concludes the desperate struggle of decay.

Returning every day from court, I pawn spring clothes. The river sees my drunken mien; my boozing debts mount up all over town. Men do not often live three score and ten. The butterflies go deep into the flowers, the dragonflies on wing among the drops. The passing time is always rushing hours; no time to know you: separation stops. 朝回日日典春衣 每日江頭盡醉歸 酒債尋常行處有 人生七十古來稀 穿花蛺蝶深深見 點水蜻蜓款款飛 傳語風光共流轉 暫時相賞莫相違

Whilst you were riding with Rebekah, Cam You never thought to ask about the scam? A dimwit or a crook, which is it to be? Before you answer, best think carefully.