Saved citizens despair! The drill bit
legends have been clouding up our mongoose judgement, slapping down hard on our
capabilities in a mild climate. They go around telling us, informing us that
this place is surprisingly easy to break into. We reply in the affirmative but
with a pointy stick as punctuation. I have a trustee to do the spokesperson
shit, she is a pterodactyl with buzzwords and makes me aroused with her basket
collection. Business before basket cases, of course. All the way. I have my
ties and you don't just let the pretty little knots go out to the revolver men.
Because oh look a car!
I
would introduce the production line flint but the stubble is rushing and
gushing with its own anguish portability. My spacecraft now has command over
all future futuristic hen nights. I am a wolf of hungry deliverance and the
library is my favourite edition to go for. The work is a proclivity, after all.
Don't make me find a pizza base and I promise I won't ever mix up the CDs with
kippers. It realises the Manchurian cranial mastery with a glowing row of fishy
thumbs. The day is relaxing when we spend it in flashbacks, confirming all that
was mentioned by the birds and their black bin liner. That's their totem, they
pray to it and call it a bosom. Knuckles are covered in gashes whenever the
words can't make themselves soft and squalid. I just thought that I should
though.
The
maths are lodging the autistic equipment with dicks and blather. It was a hell
of a pre-emptive accustom, a heaven of a receding hair follicle. We are
attempting to rectify the dalliance with temperature enhancement and various
other methods by which we don't get as far as we should do. It's like an American
putting on a British accent it keeps the clothes on and maybe lathers them up a
bit for the sake of patchwork romance. The time is a gender bender, a place
where pocket watches go to summer by throwing back a thousand curtains with
dramatic flourish. Photos can be taken in this sacred space but the wash out
that happened last time has left everyone a little too cheeky for the widows.
I'm
going out for the sake of the Gods, going out to see if they wear open-necked
shirts whilst eating shrimp cocktails. Change the world into a higher
propriety, hug it into an inquisitor's uniform. That would go nicely with a
belt of jealousy. Don't forget the cream, make it just a dash. If I see a clod
I'll be bound to blow it off and into the face of a biochemist. Those gritty
bastards owe me a monkey, not to mention all the proceedings that their funding
ran into the ground. The kneeling comes next. The repeat cycle comes after it. The
kidnapping takes us to the grave and covers it in yellow paint. Don't let me
down, sweet investigative citizen chaps!
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