Like I want your sloppy seconds, Nicky. Who knows what sort of poetry its written about you that you've now got proudly pinned up on your refrigerator. I need a mortal who's dishy, will do as its told, and won't ever look at me with those sad little doe's eyes midway through. Nothing kills the mood faster.
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Who knows what sort of poetry its written about you that you've now got proudly pinned up on your refrigerator.
I need a mortal who's dishy, will do as its told, and won't ever look at me with those sad little doe's eyes midway through.
Nothing kills the mood faster.