Rash Limbach had been getting used to giving birth to small pretzel sized swastika’s, but a few of them got very fat on his hate and hurt him when they came out.

The pain when they tried to get back into him was often far worse. 

They were like baby gators riding in the mouth of their mother.

He hatched so many fascist plots, on the banks of the swamp of history, he was like a mother reptile, carrying and burping the young on the radio.

Then pointing at the wading birds of the left, and ringing a dinner bell. 

The only thing that is worse than stepping on a water moccasin in dark swamp water is having a swastika run across your foot after it leaves the mouth of an angry spiritually deaf fool.


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