Omar Khayyam had cold comfort with only one sausage and two crabs she invited him to dance with her at a ball in the Alhambra Palace in Granada seat of the Caliph of Calpe curiously guillotined kiss your ass goodby amores white butterfly.
Escapeist fancies magical shocking realities with personal anecdotes of police trencheons with a bird's-eye view of tear-gas in a Persian ass.
All the obvious and another thing Omar what does the Queen do painfully when she bows and curtseys to a silver fish and chips with a bitter taste a characteristic indiscretion to try balls at least once.
Finally for good measure the connoisseur does not miss the opportunity to consumate sex in the top drawer revealing soiled throwaway underpants which were well matched with access to masturbating on blue orchids.
His affair was an emotional impulse like a clear, mountain stream at the train station the scent of wisteria drifting toward the Rock of Ifach pontificator maximus that nothing changes when washed in anxiety blundering and bungling with an Arab in a white Al-Qaeda robe revealing a unique admission of uncertainty to dis your mama leering rhymes lubricious gangsta rap fly in the ointment from Nishapur lascivious poet.
Dervishes caught by surprise on the Costa Blanca touched the Spanish stars a myth of the wolf howling at the moon when Cortez sailed for Mexico from Calpe wrapped in a Motzart concerto.
Me ain't saying nothing. But next time you see him imagine an erection, black waxed moustache, white beard, open laptop. Plus he's a big man. I talking about his cock, water, wine, peanut butter and lemon-lime jam take it or leave it halfway to the train station one honest moment nothing left to lose what the hell an oral history frantically pumping to the sycophant bite of silence tasting of Spanish cinnamon all over my tatooed sugar.
CALPE – P%H$A!L?L=U”S – ESPANA