My soap opera boss is a horse-faced basic bitch with a lame brain and should be put down

She traveled across the sea of pussies
To get to her position
Poised on the mountain of corporate clitoris
My head writer tells me she hates my hometown
As the last resort to get me to reply my way toward sacking
She wears a stupid baseball cap
Indoors, plus she's illiterate
Her tongue is only effective when paired with pussy
Yet she uses it to demean me, angry
When I don't feel or look demeaned
Pancakes her every breakfast, and if we stay overtime
Her every supper
Yet she's not a mare
I'm not envious
I'm not looking to get her money power and pussy
She can have it all
And admittedly, she deserves more pussy than me
This poem is written at work
Lazy and uninspiring, head writer's writing
Charisma overflowed into it
If only it could have been written
In the presence of her pussy handling

Have you ever seen those glitchy bugs that move around like eerie idiots

I'm in a 400-tabs state of mind
I feel like going headless in France
So I ask the image generator
What did Muhammad really look like
But it gives me 9 of them
And when I ask which one is the prophet
It gives me some Koran scribbles
That I don't understand but instead ask
To see 56-year-old Muhammad with
7-year-old Aisha, courtship in Mecca
You see, I should be studying
Or working
Yet I can't, for I'm waiting to get beheaded
But the only punishment I get is acid
I cough myself to sleep

Sometimes I envy tourists, those retards

How they don't mind
A bit of rain, too much sun
They're more likely to get killed
But also
More likely to have fun