Snake in my shoe
…mother’s grave. May a fetid heard of manic weasels, with much ritualistic celebration, procreate upon your mother’s grave. May a reeky hoard of ravaging maggots and an army of biting wolverines seek a battleground in your shoes. You fetid, leaf clippings for brains. You smelly, smelly, unkempt offspring of a motherless fuckwad. You moldy offspring of a motherless pop tart….
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