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$VER: DemOS V1.17 (08.02.96)

CON:64/96/512/54/ /CLOSE

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     You get the boot without a suit. "That's astute, old fruit"                                                  But as a rule, I'm cool. I'm no tool.                         [Don't drool]                                            An office job with the mob? Head      throb. [Sob]                                                             Mind your behind. Those NDA's bind.                         You signed.                                         Taking flack for a hack               behind your back? What kack.                                                       And work for some berk who's a                      Turk named Dirk?                                            Things hot? You get the lot from some snot on the trot.                                                        An own goal for the soul? It's that or the dole. Very drole.                                                              --[    OriginalImage?    ]--                                                                                                                                                                                                     --[  'romancing the stack'  ]--                                                                                                                                                                                              int loves(char *me, char *she)                {                                     return !loves(me,she);                }                                                                                                         ---                                     ------                                 ----------^-----%-----^&------                                                                                                                                                                                                   the size of their lies will be their                                demise -                                      their meat from the street makes      headlines a treat                                                                      by making a deal from spiel      over a meal. A steal, you feel?                                                        They've files of fakesmiles for denials at trials                                                     to defend their end - just followtheir trend in truth-bend.                                                     And they're fast on their feet,    with a neat line in delete                                                  should any writ hit. Would they give             a shit? Not a bit.                                                        A wink, a nod, a shrug, and a     phone-bug on some other poor mug.                                      --[   stabloids?   ]--                              --[  Shove&Nomance?  ]--                                      In the club after grub and the pub,                              bodies rub.                                      It's dark, you hit the mark, pull a                      shark, what a lark.                                      But you wished for a dish very swish,                            not a fish.                                      He'll sweat nothings in your ear for          smiles to appear. Due to beer.                                      And peruse you, confuse you, lose                            you, abuse you.                                      What luck. A quick fuck. Common muck.                                  Duck.                                      May as well cruise Mayfair. Don't                  stare. Debonair, I swear.                                      Love without a hitch. Pay by Switch.                  "Drink my piss, bitch"                                           ultrareality. it's a state of sex                                         when the holy are hell and the rest                            are in hex                                              we burn to fly, we fly to kill                                           and stuff the thingy, ill ill ill                                               nobody cares, it's all a shat                                       on the mat by fred's cat. motherfuck,                                 drat.                                           argh, argh, argh, argh. argh. and                        argh. n stuff.                                                                              this was written in 5 minutes whilst     extremely drunk and you can tell.                                                                                --[  total bullshit error [5]  ]--                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           --[   Hovel   ]--                                                                            Stelios: algorhythms                  THP: rants n nonsense                                                                                                       -  A quallity VACUUM release          (c) 1996 All Rights Reserved