“The miaow visors are here mother!”
Yelled the crucified satanist
Bruised by the beating of his visigoth

“But I don’t like that kind of stoat Uncle, it smells!”
Cried the redundant assistant producer
Surrounded by a bevy of beautiful bevies.

“Is it spring yet mother, is it spring yet dear?”
Ejaculates the costernated constipated
Dark spurter and passes loud poetic wind.