I found this on a bathroom wall, but we believe it to be authentic.
What the f*** is love? Ask the son of a b**ch who lives; what the he*l is life; who ‘s piece of s**t fu**stick brother ate my sisters **** raw (and left their spoon up my a**?)
I know not the **** size of other men, but I do know the little pe***r you call a tool. I haven’t measured it, to be sure, my love, but only small animals revel in its visage.
Thou demandest what is Love? It is that powerful attraction toward sticking your hard throbbing p****s into to the chasm of my waiting **** and if the mood strikes, into my proctologic*l zone. If we reason, we would be understood( that f***ing and su****g and the courtesy of a reach aro*nd are better than l*cking and fl*cking) If we feel, it better f***king make me shoot my j**ce . It is probably in correspondence with the law that the infant drains milk from its Mother (lucky *****). This is fu***ng love……(manuscript fades….)
4 comments:
Sounds legit to me. The Romanticists were certainly not above this sort of behavior. For example, there were reports (largely unconfirmed, for obvious reasons) of Coleridge’s “Yellow Sonnets,” written in the London snows every December. Some accounts hint that many of these sonnets were in Mary Shelley’s handwriting, but that’s a whole other story.
I believe this work to be a sham. The 'reach around' did not have it's origin until the early 20th century. It was called the 'laddie help your johnny boy while barrowin' during this time frame.
Let us not forget that Blake is widely credited with being the first to carve the following into a stall:
Here sat Napoleon, beating his Bonaparte
Blake nibbles dingleberries.
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