It's in the pantheon of guile that our government exists. Up upon Mt. Olympus, upon Mt. Olympus where each ridge is a maze of blinders, too many to control and yet still too few, they sit swigging mead and feeling up young cocks and vaginas with the hoofs of a metamorphosed cow.
Villainous humanity, you're robbing us of your deceitful decency. Brown clouds and fatigued soils; between dry beds we romp.
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