Embraceth now thy lowly youthful swinelet whose wallowed temple

doth persuade the dubious essence of thy foul woolen sole mates

by whose very presence upon the heap conceals the dastardly brown streaks besmearing thy scrawny pantlets which if to cover thy most private and sensitive entities without the familiar reek of thy honeypot’s effluent or as such bear the shameful disdain of thy siblings whose sniggling behind thy patulous backside emotes the tattling accusations of clutter speak for they are within my gentle and copious graces for obedience of thy maternal boar herder’s wishful inklings of proper order and godliness that which for its own reward establishes a worthy submission to its calling for it is weary patience that will prevail such that thy musty dusty garments may be cleansed of thy ills ruminating in the lye pools of thy humble abode’s bogwell for such time as may be commanded and yet as well prevent the confiscation of thy quill and scroll until I have cast my sight deep into thy sty of plentitude to provoke the gods of assurance so that I may succumb to the glorious realization that it has become emptied of its travesty. I beseech thy cooperative transformation from thy slothly proclivity before the shadow of Sol’s most exquisite timepiece eclipses the morning’s sacred temporal boundary.

Capiche?

Copyright 2012 Patrick Granfors