Tongue.
Into Anus.
Maybe Heinous.
But I like it.

Forks.
Into the nether.
I wear leather.
To keep them out.

Tickles.
Onto the belly.
It’s slightly smelly.
It was my urine.

Failure.
Makes midgets stronger.
The knight is no longer.
And not very short.

Apples.
Stuffed in his mouth.
My fingers go south.
Into applesauce.

Hair.
Lickety-lick the horn.
He manages his scorn.
It’ll be better now.

Roots.
Makes the tree stand.
Finger in the can.
I heave it out.

Torque.
The smile is coiled.
My balls have spoiled.
You are not needed.

Sick Thought of the Day: American Han Solo, made into doughnut meat.