Get your hands off my chair, you have the touch of a sex-starved cobra. And now will you all leave quietly or must I ask my secretary to pass among you with a baseball bat?
How are you you fawn's behind? And what are you getting me for Christmas? What news, Banjo my boy? How's the picture coming? How are Wacko and Sloppo? No, no, I'm fine; I have the best horse doctor in town. What about you? Having any fun? Playing any cribbage? What?
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Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead