ODE TO PIWI HERMAN 2: WITHOUT PIWI HERMAN (OR, SHUT UP YOU SLOTH)

Free Willy sitting on a hill. Flap Flap Flap ZOOOOM and they all smelled like ferrets in a magic glade where they ran a sex shop without any punters except did you know 35% of all tables are hermaphrodites? They sold their products to the pixi folk who slapped their bitches up with wet haddocks during the Festival of High Tittybiscuit, in which they all played with the huge magical nipple in the morning sun. Now, you, see, I have rather over-used the rabbit and I am in need of a new one, pants off bunnies and what of the sacred chihuahua that we all hold so dear to our crotches? (Not n that manner Dan) It was on a warm Monday night when the Free Willy Sex Group, when Mr. Walliscock grabbed the squirrel and caressed the trunk of the nearest beech tree with vigour using the squirrel as a natural laxative for his constipation administered anally but the other people, particularly those from the Ancient Society of the Ousel-cock, did not look upon these antics as very fun, they much prefer the act of sodomy in the bath. They (the Ancient Society of the Ousel-cock) have a whole fleet of jolly round tennis balls used for playing the sport of Biggle, which has many rules I shall not divulge to your common mind. Needless to say, it was an act of such vomit-enducing pleasure tat if one was not first strapped to a hippo with grenades then most notably, their genitals would be launched into orbit like a train out of a porn star's dungarees. But as I was saying dear reader the Free Willy Sex Group was on its annual trip to the Sea of Mary Door Joseph where they ate many a solidified urinal cake with the Merry Dancers of Poonani, who, as we all know, are lezzers. Beware of the atomic fish muffins my son - must dash the bailiffs are coming round to take my mother's stairlift - try the crumpets, they're delicious.