The Clockwork Orgy.

[Darth Yoda]

I can't think of anything that rhymes with orange. It's giving me a hard time time. Clockwork Orgy.

This is direct connotation. Or is it? I’ll resurrect Thomas Paine when, he wrote Common Sense. Who’s the best on vocation? Home-schooled but on vacation. I’m old-school. I’m Sinatra’s face. Frankly, you're not the same. Couldn’t erect a pretense that I’m creating, through the unrealness to allocate this. Look in-between the correlation, I’ll skeet on your mommas face. Indeed the sea of semen in blotchy places. You could see I plopped it on a certain locked location. If you connect the dots, you’ll allot a constellation. I went Ursa Major on her Canis Minora. We consummated. You couldn't shapeshift to save your life, I'm on euphoria. I need a consultation. Distressed. While orchestrating; a gang of wolves to eat you, while playing, Mozart's Requiem D-minor. On rotation. The lithiums' got me off-the-wall. A quick sketch compilation. You couldn’t predict my awkward state. By awkward state, I mean I’m on the fence insane when, I hop the gates to California. I’m off to Vegas. If I cock a waitress, does the AIDs I fucked her vague with, condensed to stay in Vegas? That's awfully vagina of you. & this is Survival of the Fisting. I’ve mutated, from hobbit case, to robotic rapist. Godzilla with finesse of God’s creation. Crowd thriller, count syllables. It's the Cloverfield monster had sex with Walter Payton. This is intense confrontation. You couldn't have intent to stop this pace with, double-edge-tipped oscillating, drill-pressed lava plagued-drip automation. This events' a provocation of all six-senses from M. Night Shyamalan, - if he innately thought to say. Salam Alaikum. Met Mahatmas in the Bahamas and made fun of his name, @BWHAHA arranged it. I'm Ghandi teaching Dhalsim the kick-leg thin-stretch pressing six-X combination. I’m an indexed incarnation of having sick sex, molestation. I have a sick sense of masturbation. Forget my occupation. Just nominate me. I’ll inject Obama, facing, six counts of incarceration. I insist on the operation. Select to embalm. It’s suspense in my palm. When I read it, it tells me to disconnect you from across the nation. Infect biologic rations. It's cross-checked. Some say I'm like Satan, with a pure touch. Imagine the Lochness in a velour tux, causing riots from an ionizing basin. The type of concoction phasing that causes primary caustic flaming. I love reading binary naked. If you translate the 00100001001's to sex 101, you'd see the vagina's flanking while the penis try escaping. Traumatic inhale. Oxidation. The next segment. Godly Mason, and truly I'm the Illuminati w/o the Illumi-. Illuminating, with an intent on motivating. I invent and procreate, the most incestuous postulate. I split eggs, like ovulation. Get your sig checked, if it doesnt have darth in large quotations, you're not amazing. So much suspense, you ought’ to say, you couldn’t suspect an ounce of what my chakra sprays. Let’s commence to walk away. I’m a split-end, on the hair of Samson, & It’s Darth today. I'm VERY handsome , and its fully sunk-in, that this Hulk is hunky. I'm immense. And on occasion, when I rhyme, I emblazon. X’s and Xross-terrain. They call me the ironic machine. Have sex in your Jeep 4x4 with a chick whose lies' are- she's sixteen. On my porch I’m laden. To a mortal state. Where more than often I create a mortar slate. An apex. Distraught equations. Steven Hawkings pacing; breathing: "it's p-h not v" I'm sorry Pheven. on his wheelchair buzzing his buzzer. I'm content just rollerblading. (he’s jealous that I have smaller wheels, but faster.) More revolutions on rotation. Killing my mistress, gripping chainsaws, like goodbyeeee, I’m crazy.