Diamond in a Goat's Oz

Odd to a diamond in a god's ooze,
Tycho Brahe,
I can throw thee
thick cellphone-baby.

Thick cellphone.
Thick.
Chunky. Click.

You are a golden nose,
and you hide a wet, snotty, hole,
brought on by astronomer debauchery.

Looking at stars
and reaming much ass
of low class, you have god
you just deserts.

Dirty old Star Gazer!
Nasty old lens witch!

My cellphone get thick
just thinking of your primal twitch,
and your goaty smell
among the brass and stone
of your forlorn castle home.

Giuseppe brought you village girls
you sick old fart. And now you gross
everyone out, with your golden cellphone nose
stuck on with boogers from your clothes.

Do you think you can look up god's ass
like we are forced to see inside
your rotting syphilitic skull
when you pass out

and your nose
vibrates off.

Obviously
your notes are wrong.

Pickled noses
enter cellphone heaven
on golden dongs.

And noseless astronomers
drinking heavily
must have money to spend
on whores in bed.

It was your last summer
in the burning hurdle
of this damnable oven.

Sweetness, light, joy, yadda.

yadda.