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The Letter From Hell


Brought to thine cote did I pot cheese- strawberries.
Sat in my lap a’ kissed me did Grace.
I maketh up my mind to eat her, verily.
On the ruse of a fete, nar’ I to chase.
Lovely girl pick’d wildflowers; allthewhile
Snuck I to the loft to strip my clothes off,
So they wouldst not be bloodstaind by the child.
In the wardrobe hid, but the child’s cries scoffed
At me and cryeth to her mamma dear,
Rend her clothes! How she did kick, bite, and scratch.
I stifl’d her cries to her death for my fear.
Cutteth her into pieces; dispatch’d

Her tender ass; roasted in the oven
With tomatoes, garlic, salt, a’ onions.

Post scriptum:
I didst not fuck her tho, I could therein.
Sweet , sweet little Grace Budd died a virgin.

About Ophelia T'Wat

Who in the flying blue fuck is Ophelia T'Wat? Poetic or profane? Asshole or bitch? Democramp or Republicunt? God-fearing or God-damning? Sucks dicks or licks cunts?- crunch- Three! The world may never know.

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