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Ok I take back what I said, everything of Calx's that I didn't end up saving are what I miss.
Fortunately, I have this little number:
On a night like tonight, many mondays ago,
My mom rode a dude like an artisan ho.
With the TV on full, in Jan of '86,
A football game had aroused them to sex.
They shared strangulation, spelunked each and cried,
And had quite a night, safe fun -- none had died.
But that mother of mine is tough to resist,
Able to take several cocks and a fist.
The man had obliged, so far and so good,
But the TV exclaimed "touchdown!," and quickened his mood.
The thought had occurred, to remove his dick quickly,
As the surge of emotion had gushed out, and thickly.
"Oh no you don't," said my young milfy mother,
Clutching legs fiercely like she'd fuck her brother.
He couldn't escape, he couldn't pull out,
And his monday night football game ended in rout.
The deed had been finished, and my mother had won,
Laughing insanely, covered in cum.
Her child would cook, in her thin waifish belly,
And arise eight months later from her overstretched smelly.
The doctors looked on at the dry and clean baby, with eyes quite observant, unsure of its sex,
And one thing was certain, and was not a maybe, the child locked eyes and said Calx.
"Ok we aren't such things and birds are pretty advanced. They fly and shit from anywhere they want. While we sit on our automatic toilets, they're shitting on people and my car while a cool breeze tickles their anus. That's the life."
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