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Hark! Lowly
sheister!
Thine stumbling form hath-- |
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Woe to
you, yon pitiful soul, for thine
harsh words shalt forge the sword
which shall cleave thine spine from thine back!
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And to thy
mind bringeth foogoo tortures
of the hellish knight of doom: Lord Lloyd . . .
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Uh-- Now-- now, looketh thou here--
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AND TO THINE
FUTURE, thou shalt know
no pain like that of any which thou
hath known befoOoOo0Oore . . .
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Methinks it must suck to
be thou right now, Sir Qwert. |
What's that smell?
Did you just shit yourself?
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