Ola, Buenos Diaz, at a ghastly theme hotel based on Picasso and Khayyam prikly types in memory of Moores on the Mediterrean Sea, a disgrace to their family. Stop drinking. Stop taking drugs and making jingles that rhyme.
A nasty habit of picking their noses, tasty, with 1998 Siglo, Rioja wine which no longer is accepted with liquorice sticks.
Nothing was their fault. Addiction to opium occasionally distorted their personality (Picasso became an ass and Khayyam khar-e-ologh). She wore a red silk shawl and they entered her greedily. On her lips she smeared Lancome, Paris, #14 framboise, lip gloss, ultra shiny.
The bed was made with a rose lahof, cotton moon and stars, a green crystal perfect time for him to come before going to work as a bus driver in Calpe. Khayyam was celebrating opening his ass in Espana, silent forever readin Ovid. Video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor – I see and approve the better course, but follow the worse. He broke the side mirror of the bus in the narrow streets dis-gus-ting mother.
He simply could not get out of bed. The doctor ordered him to go back to Naishapur and sleep. My aziz. Espana-Isfahan, same letters torn in kleptomania with overwhelming desire to take things he did not need. Marlboro lights, Pancho Cabarillo, he had a breakdown.
He entered her greedily.
He fainted on the beach after eating a bacon and tomato sandwich, no lettuce.
He wanted to reach a higher behavioural plateau. Conciousness-raising sessions and a sincere desire to enter her greedily.
Acting behind Picasso, Khayyam shared a moment as a saboteur. He acted behind their backs a fanciful dark side of sol.
Picasso drew a dyslexic pic of his penis in the sand and Khayyam went out like a 40 watt bulb.
So stick that up your poetry mate. And your mother's.