Frosting. You fuck. Cake, so yummy warm. It should be enough!
Yet here you come, a mountain of sugary gloopy-glop. Ruiner of baked goods with your frosty plop.
The deep sink into your bombastic colored-crazed coating sends my teeth puckering. Nerves ache — headrush from the cavity slush. Lips stained with the juice of safu after each suckering.
Icing death. Oversweet breath. Smotherer of tasty cakes — draped in an avalanche of melted flakes. Sponge so soft, so nice, defiled by sickly sweet candied ice.
Who made this junk? A sugar hag living in a polka-dotted trunk. From what mind did it come — from a clown drunk off of candy-corn-flavored rum?
