Stule,
the Soiling Buddha,
dreads dirty-di'per days.
No puerile pup,
Stule messes up
in"adult-lescent" ways.
His soul's a bod-
hisattiva's. But
his bod's sour creme brulees.
Sing to me, O Muse, but not of Wand'ring Jews, nor Ulysses, late of Troy, nor Anchises and his boy. Sing of one instead who never lea...
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