Fixamatic

by John Pursch

And so O’Flaherty E-Roarkin’ Tweedy Two-Piling
Flamepot Torino-Angler-4-Fleshscan Farmbot
(alias Sunsheen Q-Table Fixamatic Sox Machina)
was always renounced from seed to shiny spleef,
as any whirled-wide louver’s primary basted
mating tourniquet might be...

Well, this slovenly grout-fer-notchy
wrench ova wenchy wonder,
she staggers between barstools
batter tan any udder armchair
totally dug-knee-terrier blow-by-blowbot
what Yule never have deep rivulets
of purely mined loud goop,
latter lone good luck,
to mate in personage or when exiled
on an otter planetoid in sherbet aloud
summed starry-sighed canned stellae shins,
tanned intoned and of course purr-flecked lea attached
to seven amour (hey!) stumblingly spinning thighs
lick wad weave Yeti sea graze the soil or hat most fear
of hourly wander fuel planet Dearth.

Hear, led me given ye hind spansule
of wad she zounds alike when she pluralizes:

“Aaooooh, ladled biceps honers,
stuck hon palmipsest Dearth,
shame dimes noun has plangent Dirt.

Swell come’s sorely swilling up
hen yer bulkheads bellow dick,
high can seize data weed out
heaven clocking a shekel
on yer seemingly measely orbit.

Whelp, antsy blonde-ruddered feminine lobotic
ken sea wad’s cumin on,
phlegm halfway surround da galactic hub,
dusty opaquity knot-weed-spandex.

Highs closet, laps spurted,
higher tail ye icon feeble yer savory surge,
haul twelve bullion of youse,
nest jut yearning toucan but hag chew alley
scumming upper sturm und dragnet,
spouting threw thyme without heaven
you sing temporal drugs or thyme mache!

Quiet an extraordinary fleet
ewe bays’ve menage’d to pull offal,
hefty ye drone mine the pun!”