Palatial

I don't actually like this, but I had nothing better to post.

You don't need your palate to pronounce the 16th letter; only pursed lips, a pulmonary puff, and a bit of spunk -- don't push too powerfully, or you'll spit.

By principle, an exposition of my plight: I am no Prince. I possess no posh palace, no expensive, well pressed pinstripes. Rather, I work in presses, and am quite poor. A pauper whom few pals support. My Pa, a Pole, parted from me quite primly, the prick. I am at the mercy of pimps, their prostitutes, and Pauline, my prickly pet porcupine. I am not pretty either, covered in large pores, purple pimples, and having a pearly complexion, like a limp, pale, pulpy octopus.

I recall, however, my pathetic parentage; my perilous pregnancy and its penultimate prize. Spread apart, open with the Pakistani practitioner pulling at my parts, palpably put off, pruning: "Push! Push!" I pushed, and pushed, and out was plucked the plump plum, plumed and pricked : a pineapple. Proof of my pain, I puked, then passed out.