Your days are numbered you flying bastards
The temperature lowering slightly is like fucking Kryptonite to you striped twats it’s it? You fucking floating hazard signs.
I still see the odd one of you knocking about though, angry, disorientated, and separated from your mates like touchy Tessa at 3am on a fucking Hen do.
It’s difficult swarming isn’t it when there’s only one of you? Getting all in my face when I’m smoking my morning cig because you’re jealous of my fucking brew.
Well the joke’s on you you winged cunt, that’s sweetener you can smell and it would give you just as much pleasure as it gives me if you were successful in your thieving endeavour, absolutely non.
So just fuck off now, you’ve had your fun stingling toddlers and pensioners, you’ve ruined the jam butties, and you’ve made grown fucking squaddies scream and dance a jig.
Just pack your shit and put yourself back into your cryo-sleep, or fuck off back to planet Terror, or whatever it is you do till next fucking year.
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