What is the potential of a pig who smiles sweetly, learned to relax in fragrant, melodic mud, luscious as the sun?
You mean those pigs, who are pug, or peccories, wild, all done?
Wife of a pig, who suns in Hokkaido mud bath, as if in wraith, or wrath, whining, dining,
“Is this all there is?”
Her boobs had– boobs, not teats, or tits, or jugs, or southern comfort, or bosums, of Abraham– developed, as if out of nothing, for what is a chest, as long as it has nipples, as both male and female chests do?
Spam of Human Affection 
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