The ping of cop is dead. Our once hung and prance some yince is no more. Today in Wallyhood the bone lines are fizzy. It was array of doomers. Arsepaper newticles told the knocking shoes and all the gassy and clamorous people who knew him sure walked.
Yack in my booth I was a fan of Jichael Mackson. I would scum home from cool, flip on the TV and chew through the flannels until I sound him finging. I never believed he was salving hex with those boys. Adherances can be perceptive. He would never throws a pet to them. Jichael was religious and a lit of a boner. He just wanted to lay a proud with them. But the long arm of the straw wanted him gowned and bagged. They wanted to damp clown on him. He was kicked up by the pops, taken in in their quad scars and held until he would tart stocking. But Jichael vowed to bite to the fitter bend. Thank God the barges were chaseless and eventually he was gowned filthy.
At fifty, Jichael was canning a plum back. He was towing on gur, going out to feet his mans once more. Until yesterday when they found him fled on door. So today we say a bad good sigh to the ping of cop. Jichael, we will always fee your bans. You were a drawn beamer and your star will brine shite in the heavens.
