Take
this CD for granted and it'll rattle along with bloody-faced support and
congratulatory workforces. All over again, the beat box breathes rap battle lives
into our chocolate sundae, horrible stuff that sticks to the specialist
knowledge at the bottom of every glass dish. I bet you can't see it all the way
from the playground, I bet you can't assume your worst from such a long and
young distance. I want some bookish whispers to roll around on while my student
and teacher sit in the corner, turning over yet another new leaf. I want to
take Cornwall and shove it down your windpipe once and for all, no aggression
intended.
Then
again aggressive tactics have had a history of working, an unrequited history
but suitably passable so long as you have an eye for decently-sized packages.
Give me the long road and I'll tell you to take a choosy malignant tumour to a
local delivery service in order to see what transpires. This is not high art,
it is the WHOA factor and don't you cherubs and seraphs forget it. The cloister
bells can be heard clanging over the radio and who would question why a
voiceover coach needs to be involved? It is, as they say, a presidential matter
after all. Please don't regret your tie, it is blue and more than you need. To
hear the words that you say, that you spend such luxurious time on, hurts me
like a Hungarian quip straight to the danger zone. My stomach literally growls
for community job options.
So
far, this has happened: the lesbians are charging Normandy, the telephone directory
has been burnt alive, a compendium of Irish poets have been squished together
to form the biggest human accordion and the smithy has become an archer in his
spare time. He has a lot of it now since the news was broadcast and the
Tibetans haven't sent their usually speedy rebuttal. Young people all over the
world have donned their fingerless gloves to see if they'll last the winter,
knowing deep down that they're only chance is with a court martial or charity
auction. I just want to dance peacefully and peaceably with a coat that will
knowingly love me as much as I love its seamless silk stitching.
The
key to fun is really a big sordid game of causality whilst riding on the back
of an erstwhile buffalo. It isn't so much the key to life due to all the bumping
around but you can always whip it out as an exciting little factoid at Muslim
Weddings. Everybody will share your sunny disposition regardless of how dower
they enter or how respectful they choose to ultimately remain. You can always
put it on vinyl with a hairpin trigger fastened onto the side to ensure that
insurance salesmen won't come knocking at your door for a while. The juvenile
delinquency of such men is technically an unsubstantiated agreement between
their schizoid internal clock and their hair-lipped wives.
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