As I was reminded this morning by the Mooks: Three days without incident. I am giving them a break.
Besides, I have problems of my own.
Dog Girl
Ginger, oh!, Ginger
Don't make me a whinger.
Come to me lass—
Let me sniff that sweet ass.
Ginger, oh!, Ginger
My sweet kibble-binger.
Stop with the chase
And sit on my face.
Let me lick round your ears,
'Til I bring you to tears,
Trace a line to your beaver,
'Til you're mad with heat-fever.
Never mind I've no balls,
My tongue does the job;
I'll warble a ditty
On your little bitch knob.
As you wriggle and wimper
I'll swear like a sailor—
I know you won't simper—
You'll simply get paler.
When finally you swoon
From the pleasure you've had,
You know that real fun
Comes from dogs who are bad.
Ginger, oh!, Ginger
You wicked heart-singer
Your pie needs a-filling,
And Léo's a-willing.
Ginger, oh! Ginger
You poodle, me mutt;
A match made in Heave!
Come be my sweet slut.
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