Neverending Story [Game]

[AAAAAAAAAA]

The fiery temper.. The bad breath...the hairy fingers...how could I have been so blind. My fucking eyes!

[GAGAGO]

Yess! Some have known it for a time!

I am Medusa, daughter of Ceto, and very DANGEROUS so take care...

How thrilling! Just what I always dreamt about.

:luv1: :luv1: :luv1:

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

The fiery temper.. The bad breath...the hairy fingers...how could I have been so blind. My fucking eyes!

Sorry, I made you so disgusted,
But one thing can now though be thrusted,
I no longer hunt for rabbit-spleens,
And have gone over to only eat greens.

But I am not what you want today,
So I wish you a better luck on your way,
To happiness and I hope you may,
Find a less scary and hairy love-girl there in your hay...

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Yess! Some have known it for a time!

I am Medusa, daughter of Ceto, and very DANGEROUS so take care...

How thrilling! Just what I always dreamt about.

:luv1: :luv1: :luv1:

Jaja! Maybe I can be a map to guide you through the depths of your feelings, into the sources of your power, personifying your fantasies!


Because that is what Gorgons do!

[AAAAAAAAAA]

The fiery temper.. The bad breath...the hairy fingers...how could I have been so blind. My fucking eyes!

Sorry, I made you so disgusted,
But one thing can now though be thrusted,
I no longer hunt for rabbit-spleens,
And have gone over to only eat greens.

But I am not what you want today,
So I wish you a better luck on your way,
To happiness and I hope you may,
Find a less scary and hairy love-girl there in your hay...

You used to hunt for rabbit spleens??
But you nearly sold Arnold down the river,
When he ran out of his baked beans,
And kindly asked for a taste of your liver,

And when you were romancing that fat-so,
Weren't you some kind of blue duck?
Err..wouldn't Arnold like to know,
Your species, before you choose to fuck?

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

HUUUH

I never fucked Arnold, that Broad-side-muck,
And you were much nicer when you were a duck,
Now you have claims like a smuck,
And I no longer will give you a fuck.


So try to understand that I will not pluck,
A single feather on your fluck,
So you better stay with your new "truck",
Or be a handsome red eunuck.




Thank you for the rhymesight.

[AAAAAAAAAA]

That was fucking horrible. Try again.

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Nooo! That was my best attempt. Ever!

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

That was fucking horrible. Try again.

Oh, now I think I know, why you are so displeased with my rhymes. You don't understand them! So I will help you there...


Broad-side-muck= Shit from a fox beside a broad way. On the English countryside, they often hunt foxes with dogs and those dogs run after the foxes shittrails, hopefully on a broad sideway.

Duck=Swimming bird with short legs and a broad bill.

Smuck= Farm-labourer or one a bit stupid peasant.

Fuck= Psysical sexual contact between individuals.

Pluck= Pull or pick off or out.

Fluck=The barbed end of a hairy tail.

Truck= Close associate, often used for loading psychical or physical burdens.

Eunuck= Man deprived of external genitals...

Happier now?

[Arnold Layne]

I, Arnold, am not a roadside muck. Nor a truck. Although I do live life in the fast layne.

Arnold Layne

[Derrick Rose]

This story makes no sense anymore...

[GAGAGO]

I agree with you total,and I will soon be back with the real Neverending. This now is very questionable.

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

I, Arnold, am not a roadside muck. Nor a truck. Although I do live life in the fast layne.

Arnold Layne

There once was a Broadside-Muck,

That didn't know how to fuck,

So he asked his buddy the Baker,

How on Earth he could make a shaker,

But that Miserere was now eunuck...


SO HAHAHA

[AAAAAAAAAA]

Arnold went to the orgy at the brown palace,
The gang showed up late (since they were in Dallas),
He closed his web-browser,
Took a peek down his trousers,
And found he was missing his phallus.

All of Seattle heard his shrill cries,
He couldn't believe his FUCKING eyes,
Arnold thought "how could this be"?
"Was I castrated by P. Nurmi??"
O what a tragic surprise!!

The baker declared, "I will solve this crime!!"
"I'm a master sleuth who knows how to rhyme!"
He used his great mind,
And lifted Arnold's belly to find,
It hidden underneath the whole time.

But under closer observation, it was a steak,
That Arnold insisted they immediately bake,
So he ate it (well-done)
And the mystery went on,
'til Arnold again had something to shake.

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Jaja! This is maybe the new Poem-Neverending...

A Castrator(?) was lurking around in Seattle,
Huh, he was looking for micros, but not from cattle,
No, no, for orgying, wellequipped guys in their dens,
And gosh, he found two, among ugly turkey-hens.

One muffin-baker was easily done,
Knipps, knapps, HUH what a sound,
And next came a fatto, he screamed like a hound,

To their micros, they both had to say good bye,
But, Oh, they could sing high notes and display,
Themselves in Ludwigs old Ode, hurray and hurray.

So they sang with their beautiful castrato-voices,
And that was a joy, and only positive noices,
Could be heard from the public,in the concert-palace,
They could not get enough from the two without phallus,
Ja, it was even heard, as far as in Dallas.

They sang!

Joy, thou brightest heaven-lit spark,
On the holy Seattle-ground we walk,
All the sorrows we tear apart,
And we take all the angst from your poor Seattlehearts.

Our voices together make magic powers,
But those cutting scissors made us badbad lovers,
So we have to sing like angels for our public,
And not think so much about things, like fuck and pubic.

[AAAAAAAAAA]

Very impressive, and a remarkable improvement!!

Time to step up my game.

THE CONCERT
Copyright LPS, 2011...

The gay baker and Arnold join a choir,
To quell their insatiable sexual desire,
Since they had fought in a vicious battle,
And lost their genitals like helpless cattle,

The baker and Arnold give a grand concert,
Arnold wears a stolen polka-dot skirt,
What a duo, their songs as sweet as honey,
With one big problem: Arnold's nose is runny,

During their show, it leaks mucus and snot,
Like i'd never seen, what a terrible lot,
It pours down the halls and drips off the stage,
It drenches their scores and dries on each page,

It coats all the chairs and covers the doors,
Sprays onto the audience and spreads on the floors,
It squirts every-which way in the room,
And spreads a noxious, snotty fume,

Many men drown as the snot forms a sea,
The building reduces to filth and debris,
Thousands are wounded and lose their lives,
An ambulance comes but no one survives,

The baker and Arnold make a clean break,
And flee the building (after grabbing some steak),
And as they look back at the river of goo,
They realize singing simply won't do...

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Huh! How snotty! I must rush now but I come back! I will think about that flood when I see persons here with a cold. Typical Arnold!

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Seattle Times today...

After the big snot-catastrophy in Royal Palace, our poem-competition was a big success. Among the hundreds of contributions, we have the pleasure to present the winner, mr Gay Barker, with his splendid masterpiece, "the Consert", which we publicise on page 41, in this edition.

On second place, came Ö10, from Sweden, that visited us during Thanksgiving. Her poem is called "How I experienced a consert, worse than N.N.N F,s soloapperarance in Rio".

How I experienced...

I was at the consert, in Seattle Royal Palace,
And listened to the two gays, that just lost their phallus,
And Gosh, how they sang, it could even reach Dallas.

The one called the Baker, was thin as a stick,
And the other, the Arnold, was short and hugely thick,
He was as a mountain, and looked like a dick,
But Gosh, how they sang, even without a mick.

I sat in the back-rows, and that was my luck,
For all of a sudden the broad-side-muck,
Started to sneeze and without a cluck,
It ran down his belly, and it soon was yuckyuck,
But gosh they still sang, without the slightest of suck.

The snot ran through the Palace, in one mighty flood,
And those on the first rows, oh my dear God,
They tried to flee, but the snotriver was over the road,
It killed and it killed, every one, that there stood.
But gosh, how they sang before the snot was in the close neighbourhood.

I was standing high, on my Palace-stool,
And around me they drowned and it wasn't so cool,
But I stepped on their backs, since I am not a fool,
And I float on the snot, but I was not like some pool.
But gosh how they sang, and everyone drool.

Fat Arnold was floating, in his snot, like a cork,
And the baker rode, on his back, as a Marabou-stork,
And paddled his way, out of the Royal Palace,
And I'm not surprised, if they now are in Dallas,
But gosh how they sang, those two without phallus...

[AAAAAAAAAA]

Hahaha
Excellent. I can imagine the gay-baker perched on Arnold's back, paddling to safety in a river of mucus.



The Seattle Times has recovered a note from a deceased concert attendant, who had the misfortune of sitting in the front row. His last words...

The Gay Baker and his Broadside-Muck

I can't deny, I will soon meet my maker,
Curse that broad-side muck and his thin-gay-baker!!
And as I lie squirming under a sea of hard snot,
Allow me to share a final thought..

On that winter's night, late in December,
I saw something I will always remember,
After the third Aria I glanced at the muck,
And noticed the strange pose he had struck,

He made such a grimace, his face had turned red,
As though remembering secrets shared under the bed,
He then flapped his arms like a mackaw,
Cracked his knuckles and clenched his jaw,

He jigged his ears, and licked his lips,
He tugged his hair and wiggled his hips,
He winked, spun, and hopped in a state of alarm,
He flapped his tongue and licked his forearm,

He flared his nostrils as his belly grew large,
He huffed and puffed, and released the discharge,
And I still remember how the poor man bled,
When the projectile of snot tore off his whole head,

I was told that before the clock struck eight,
The reaper would come to seal our fate,
But as I glanced at my watch to take note of the time,
I couldn't see anything- it was coated with slime,

I lie here dying under a mucus ocean,
With bitterness, my everlasting emotion,
Praying that somehow I will get un-stuck,
CURSE the gay baker and his broadside-muck!

[GAGAGO]

What is this? Verses! Verses and verses! I had planned to write a story but I can not write VERSES so you will miss my good story. Serve you!

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Here are some more verses, dear!


Seattle Times! Again!

Miracle at the royal Palace.

Today, we can report a big miracle. When the staff started to clean up the mess at Royal Palace, they heard someone, under a bench crying, "Priapus, Priapus, help!" They chopped through the stiffened mucus and found a woman. It was Hedda Molar, the dead dentists wife, and she was alive. She wanted so to write a poem about her horrors and we let her. She called it "Close to death in Fatmans snot". But, but, we fear that she has stolen some of her best rhymes from our winner...


CLOSE TO DEATH IN FATMANS SNOT.

I was in the Fatmans horror-mucus stuck,
And I was sure I was dead and that this was bad luck,
In the greengray shadow of sticky snot,
Could this be heaven, yes that was what I thought,

But where were the angels, where was my maker,
I could hardly believe it was that singing baker,
As far as I, now in my despair, could remember,
He must have saved himself the fifth of december.

I wanted so, to make a heavy alarm,
But, huh, I could not move my best larmingarm,
It was stuck like the rest of whole me,
In all the green stuff, that was like hard glee.

I moved my mouth to scream a halloo,
And hoped that the gay without some phallo,
Would hear me, but the silence was large,
So that good idea, I had to discharge.

But then I saw my husband, that I once wed,
He was lying rather close, but oh he was dead,
He had a big hole in his dentisthead,
And from that I could see, he had bled.

But I lived, hip hurray, and the reason this time,
Was that when the Fatman pushed out his slime,
I put up my umbrella over my head,
And that gave me shelter, when all others were dead.

I lay there under the mucus-ocean,
And happiness was my lasting emotion,
It was the Priapus-Umbrella that saved my ass,
But I curse the Fatto that made me almost chew grass.

[AAAAAAAAAA]

Very good!
Now I'm getting busy... no poems for a few days.

(This isn't because you called Arnold a broadside-muck)

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

That is okey! I am rather poem-empty just now too, so even I take five from poetry¨. There are other things in life you know...

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Hedda Molars song!

You have a hole in your head, dear Dentist, dear Dentist, you have a hole in your head, dear Dentist! A hole!

Huh, with what can I mend it, dear Hedda, dear Hedda, with what can I mend it, dear Hedda? With amalgam?

Sorry, dear Dentist, dear Dentist. The hole can't be mended, dear Dentist, not even a rootfill will do.

Why can't it be mended dear Hedda, dear Hedda, why can't it be rootfilled, dear Hedda? Why not??

Beacause you are dead, dear Dentist, dear Dentist, Because you are dead, dear Dentist! Stonedead.

So why am I stonedead, dear Hedda, dear Hedda? Why am I stonedead?

You were killed by some Arnoldsnot, dear Dentist, dear Dentist, You were killed by some snot.

[GAGAGO]

Is this some form of verse too? How many are there? They seem to never end!

[Arnold Layne]

A stream of consciousness poem from me, Arnold!

I Arnold, dedicate this toast,
To all the good boys here at the post,
Though the reason I look so fat and pail,
Is since I spend all day sorting mail,

Its no use to try to pretend,
If I keep this up, i'll never get a boyfriend,
And the muffinbaker is gone for the holidays,
Probably to spend time with goats and gays.

Arnold Layne

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

You my friend are history and I think I am going to be homonym soon...Go on and play with your "good boys".

[Arnold Layne]

You my friend are history and I think I am going to be homonym soon...Go on and play with your "good boys".

Huh! Why do you say this? I, Arnold, will be just fine.

Do you have any news from Karlheinz Stockhausen, my old flame? I would like to see him during the Christmass holidays.

Arnold Layne

[ÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖ]

Sorry, but I have to tell you, that he now is happily engaged in your twin Aberaber. I have enough of you fags so I have to move away. HUUUUUU

[Arnold Layne]

We will discuss this broadside later.

Arnold Layne