Daddy’s little princess, but his queen got her clitoral steamed by six year old wet dreams, and she’s safe, female paedophiles are Grey’s Anatomy, their clitorises free to defile in peace and quiet with clarity, so Bonnie and Clyde the patty cake environment, it’s a wild ride when you lie with thighs of your own loin, not grown; but still conjoined for your enjoyment and parity, return to your groin, reverse gravity, or stand on your head and levitate salary on bed spreads, or fold out couches: a lounge room brothel for neighbourly grouches; a backdoor open for the boarding school dorm hopefuls: a harem hovel where you can get a handful; a gropeful; or turn kidnapping into robbery—grovelling at the feet of the Madam then sculpt pottery in the heat of her cavern.

Sitting around the basket case, their faces hidden by masks and mace, a dainty summer dress and finger paint face, the TV talking about the next election race, the cameras film the erection take place: mullets and curly hair—none down there: little fingers crawling like spiders: where? All natural, al naturale or shaven bare, this one asks her to call him bear, and her little voice twinkles as her mother takes the sock, the music stops and the TV seems to watch, as the rubber gag is poultry, salmonella infested throats sultry, tastes salty and mostly can’t be afforded to your standard backdoor whore hacksaw.

Child pornography, she learnt it on the TV, tutorials on sucking dicks, use protection and still get VD

Public executions shown in short bursts, military murder and open hearses broadcast just before sport, hurts; scars and heinous farce in video game play, show the kids Saving Private Ryan so they can see the dying are just pray, and the spray is indiscriminate, but never aimed at immigrants: they got here after all, didn’t they? Press play and educate: the scientists build death rays, but religion aims, cocks, and fires death-laid bare.

Lolita, Lolita, lovely Lolita, middle name: hardcore bone eater.

I love sex with sweet sixteens, legal and clean, no dirt; most certainly, certifiably innocent, incense so romantic; enjoy their breath as much as their young breasts, but the thought of sex with a fifteen year old makes me sick, that’s why I always see their birth certificate before I see their clit, welcome to the world of sexual pleasure, I don’t deflower, I plant seeds and caress leather, young bed wetters don’t be embarrassed, I’ll take you to the sweet streets of Paris, away from the Moulin Rouge, and the sleaze because two’s, just enough for you to lose your childhood, no booze it’s better if you’re good and sober, and no bruises unlike those losers who blabber at babies to young ladies, and treat children as play things, they deserve the wrath of Hades, I just want soft skin, an innocent grin soon to know of more evil things: flesh liniment pencilled in, sex immigrant let me in, no wrinkles except for the dimples, not simple, but thoughts innocent, the sheets crinkle and we stretch ligament, find a place to hide from parents, keep secrets but afterwards remember it; wear it as a badge of honour, I didn’t steal your honour, or take it from ya; you gave it to me, you were crazy, but I was crazy too, a year ago I wouldn’t know you, but that time has passed, you’re a woman now, in two years time, which means you’ve gone from apple of my eye, to a cherry between thighs.

It was just an unrelated video, playing the bottom of the screen, which side of the mind left it unseen? Logged by the IP; he’s arrested and she’s dead, he may as well be, did he see red? ISPs bleed backdoors into blacklisted dread; the unknown fear spreads most easily, just like the youngest of flesh bruises so pleasingly.