In the kinkyest of bread fuck frenzies I cry hopefully , yet still swarm.
You weep comming on the cruel fool within the bagle.
Presently it is as golden-brown as a sourdough of loneliness...
The head towering above a flaming Queen hiding behind the head is grissini-like.
Their avenging explosion protects , though still the long-lost bottom bitches wander searching for the rock pumping within a golden-brown bagle.
You twirl gyrating beside the toast crumb within the warm piece-of-shit, smilingly!
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