Nursery Rhyme

The grumbling of our engine, mixed with Musette’s blood – she works below deck, in the engine room, where I can’t see her, for often longer hours than me, bringing home more money than I do – comforts me as I sip through the aether. Alone now, in the cabin, bubblegum between my lips, her blood pumping through the speaker system, and that sweet Ariana Grande, singing about Honeymoon Avenue – if it were up to me I’d pop that cherry thumpidy dump dump, just goin’ back to the way it was with a slow down throat gurgle of dudes spitting up her gushing glory hole.

Ah, but come on, who am I to judge? She’s got so much greatness in that soul of hers, like a sunbeam shimmering through the window shades, beaming on our hearts. How long ago was it, really, that she was just that little daughter, who every good girl’s dad has, singing about bringing the light up to the top of the tree – I know the type. I’ve got one that sleeps next to me every night. It’s her blood powering this speaker system. It’s her song singing to my soul. It’s got that sweet surrendered sex, and the rules fused into the bone. Hip bone connected to the baby skull. Baby skull connected to the tomb stone.

You see, it’s easy enough to pass the challenges. You are naturally inclined to walk the golden path. There are angels everywhere. Just thump it with a bit of forgetfulness and leave the pills in the drawer for a couple of weeks. We’re young, fresh, and let me tell you, I’ve got some hot jizz, and it gets the job done. I’ve practically got children partying to the sweet songs coming through the speakers. It’s like a daycare over here – a nursery.


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