Massive Asshole

Roses were what? Pink or white, depending on whose version of the song was being followed.

It didn't matter whether they were white or pink, what Ricky did care about was why he thought a tanned skin a rose, and her black kaftan the decorative element that protected the beautiful flower. He didn't think of what he was doing being a bad, imitative poet, nor why he felt rage, that boiling hot feeling he had become accustomed to seize him whole when the photographer, a bald Frenchman screamed, 'Give me that orgasmic look, yeah good, baby!' and 'Oh don't give me that mere pose, my mother does better when she's with her boring lovers!'

He had the urge, repeatedly, to snap his red neck into two and feed them to the horse that had been subjected to sexual assault without the privilege of a jerk off. Constantly he made remarks like, 'Hold the reins of that beauty like it's going down on you and you don't it to stop,' another time he insisted that she 'ride