Category: Boblimptock

This is Grinken Time …

In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …

The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.

You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.

After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.

“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.

As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.

I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.

An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.

Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.

So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.