Duelling Cunts

The Tutor Sings:
Hurricane ALT F Girl, fucked upon the hill,
Hurricane ALT F Girl, sounding very shrill.
Is she worthy? I don't think so.
Is she thinking? Yes, very slow.
Whatcha doing, ALT F Girl, you cunt?
Hurricane  ALT F Girl, rims a dappled mare,
Hurricane ALT F Girl, semen in her hair.
Is she oozing? Yes, I think so.
Is she horrid? Yes, ever so.
Whatcha doing ALT F Girl, you cunt?
Hurricane  ALT F Gir-rl
Hurricane  ALT F Gir-rl
Hurricane  ALT F Girl
Boop Boop.

The Boop Boop made it kismet doncha think?

I responded:
Mares are female horses, idiot.

The Tutor rejoined with:
Female horses over the age of three actually - unless they are thoroughbreds - then it's four.
And here I thought the restorative act of rimming was, anatomically speaking, gender neutral?
But I defer to you in matters concerning all things equine.
I's such a silly filly.
"Is she thinking? Yes, very slow."
Neigh, whinny and clippity-clop indeed

I further stated:
Your next line involves semen, does it not? Sorry for thinking you had flow, Tennyson.

The Tutor dug his grave deeper with:
Semen, like our love, comes in spurts. It doesn't flow; nor should my poetry.

Someone had blunder'd:
Yours not to make reply,
Yours not to reason why,
Yours but to rim and die:
Unto the sphincter of death
Oozed the dull ALT-F.

Okay!
Okay!
You're right.  In the original tune those two lines are connected in content.
I'll change the lyric to:

"Hurricane ALT F Girl, rims a dappled hare,"

Better now?

I pronounced the coup de grâce:
Yes. I love bunnies!

The Tutored pouted:
I hate you!

I wallowed in victory:
Peel me a grape!


Apologies to Donovan for soiling his masterpiece, "Jennifer Juniper".