Doctorate of Cement

It oozes everywhere in these parts. Dr. of Cement Thong stands over there in plaid with her stomach out, an obvious department chair, fat cigar stub in her mouth. She's got some kind of racing tickets for a charity for victims of racing. She's all, "We'll take you: your bitch against my bitch." Then she sit back pickin hard spots offer pants while the grrlz go at it. Like a slingshot snapping, she'd thrown over her natural loving care for men to a feminist battleground mentality, bombs literally bursting overhead. In the meantime, cement moved but moved glacially imperceptibly through the valley, God's vicious cycle.

"There is always more, yet only one of each of us, and we are being ground chilluns all up in it." Hoolie