Hey Saint Albanese, do you see that edifice between your thighs
stand tall with your treachery; and then discover it is no dick.
That is why your inglorious beatifier Prakash Saint Paul only
loves you from behind the lurid curtains, because he is
always famished for a dick (lowda)! He can’t cock suck you, since you haven’t got any!
And do you fancy your transvestite garments in your closet. Or
does Jodie Haydon wear them with you in a twinning. Who
wears the condom on the vibrator between the two of you?. Does the rest of the Labor Party
fit their miniscule penises on your bed as well? What a theatre of
victorious villains you are in your pansiful charade? Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, as the
Liberals are just like the mites among you fish! Let’s say you all have
a gay pride parade in the deep sea! Did you spring out of your mother’s fishy ovum,
out of roe, does she call on you still from her mothballed grave
(don’t forgive the metaphor) because she probably haunts
Canberra’s waters for you! And would your shark-spawning Dad
take South Australia tomorrow. I command Gemini and Capricorn to abandon
South Australia from tomorrow. Everything that you and the Labor Party touch become
Pissing Pisces. But not before you all are skewered on the barbecue for eternity. Would
you like that better than the morbid waters that I have consigned you to, in the Piscean deep sea?
Live it up all you besotted cheats. Take up your Labor-tools, minus the one that don’t exist between
your legs. The air in Australia is getting rarer for those who stand for truth!
(In fact, the whole world’s air, including that of the US, is getting polluted with Prakash Saint Paul’s toxins! Prakash Saint Paul farts from his mouth!)
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