.:: The Truth Hurts ::.

[Objective]

I'm the adventurous kind, scentless, restless, master of minds,
spellcaster of rhymes
that magically appears in spheres of senseless disastrous crimes
to pass the backasswards lackluster backbuster jackass that is time.
"I'm thirty, I'm FINE!"
But feel dirty, unworthy of curvy furbys to mermaidian cousines and dimes,
firstly cus I'm worst me if I cursed it and bursted albanian proteins of slime.
The purpose is worthless for serpents of life,
It HuRtS uS, mY pReCiOuS, like ushers in spite.
I'm mostly the ghostly joker barred in viking folklore that signed with TalkMore,
taste my odor and tell me how you starred a bard that started liking Mordor.
Say "I'll DM you like a bauss, B!" (Nice, I'll handle THAT;)
then show up at her house with dice and battlemats.
I lost character...
and don't be the last to ask about the aftermath,
I'll just pass the ash and chalk it up with laughter gas.