Oh, It's the Bob and Tom Show. Come, fair lady, to mine bed, we go and verily sweet pleasures we shall know

Yet where thy belly meets thy, I beseech thee give a trim, for thy bush doth overflow.

Malady doth have a 70s muff.

A 14 70s muff.

A 14 70s muff.

Mm-h seems. Zounds, it's as prickly as a Christmas wreath.

Think it might hide some baby birds beneath

pray shave it off to make a coat

there are furb balls down mine throat short in curlies tweaks my teeth.

I sayeth not thy is her suit but it looketh like thou hast buckwheat in a leg lock

mmm but soft what hair through yonder girdle grows,

To be, or not to be put in cornrows.

Oh, it is beastly and unruly,

and it smelleth of patuli.

And that offends my nose.

I sayeth not thou art furry down there.

But it doth resemble Fidel Castro eating a London broil.

Mmm!

Trala la la la la la la la la la la la

mr

la la mr.

medieval bush. Evil Bush. Hello!

...