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for this fantastic s-xual maneuver, the weather must be just perfect. as you are having p-ssionate intercourse in the outdoors, you see off in the distance a storm arising. as it approaches you realize that this particular storm is a thunderstorm. it is your opportunity for a lord byron. c-ck is c-cked and the storm is brewing. pull out and stand above her in a majestic lord-like pose. as soon as the lightning flashes you sh-t… it drops (boom!) on her chest as the thunder crashes. you stand majestically above her as a lord who has just conquered a lesser race. lord byron then takes a cigarette out and ashes on the sh-t he just left on her luscious bosoms.
lord byron did a number on that b-tch last night.
the baddest motherf-cker to ever roam this earth.
robert: “rick said that tom got drunk and high last night, f-cked a set of smoking hot twins, and woke up this morning and cooked everybody pancakes.”

jesse: “man, tom is a real lord byron!”
she walks in beauty, like the night

of cloudless climes and starry skies,

and all that’s best of dark and bright

meets in her aspect and her eyes;

thus mellow’d to that tender light

which heaven to gaudy day denies.

one shade the more, one ray the less,

had half impair’d the nameless grace

which waves in every raven tress

or softly lightens o’er her face,

where thoughts serenely sweet express

how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

and on that cheek and o’er that brow

so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

the smiles that win, the tints that glow,

but tell of days in goodness spent,—

a mind at peace with all below,

a heart whose love is innocent.
-lord byron