No sex please, we're British?

A droubble by chant_z

The flowers of evil have surely multiplied. Like cancer seeds they should not be disturbed in their weary quarters, where abandoned feather-like clouds choaked the ceiling of the little church where we once wedded. I loved her then, my little dairy queen, or should I say queen bee after plan B hadn't rescued me. Where's the fire alarm, open window, third floor? I should know better but there aint no peace for the wicked. Oh yeah, I recall our last meeting in Amsterdam. It rained women on that day; a sad day for sure. It's always sad when it's raining but then again you Brits know all about that. However the fire in bed was quickly choaked by the wet rain and the city showed off at its best. Not too many churches here; more channels. I loved you then my little dairy queen and I love you now so let's have babies and show the world that there is tomorrow; it's more to the picture than the cynical but all too familiar fascination street where girls walk back and forth pushing their five year olds. No sex please, we're British. A bad pun? I doubt that to be true.

Published on 28/06/15