Apple
pie thanks. Text me your number concordantly and the Black Cats should have no
problem to speak of, they’ll just sit on the third rail and sputter with their
top lip undone and their bottom lip wound round into a fanciful bowtie. The
misandry of the act shall be indeterminable but all your dollies will continue
to say that they love you with fluffy ears and the light hurts us with cute
moments.
‘We’re
your top-knot friends and we know where it’s at, usually in the basement. We’re
free for sound bites and don’t really have the time or the wealth to judge, we’re
still in our pyjamas and moving along the shadows as if they were cake on
wheels. We’re Navy Seals, we’re SAS, we’re the dollmakers, we’re the conjoined
teeth of a man who collects primary real estate for kicks. Leave the learned
man on, he might turn out to be a friend with a lovely set of buttocks for you
to establish with egg yolk. We’re not gay, we’re ex-military and lacking razors
for cleaning our buttresses.’
That
tykes are irresponsible is a commonly held dictation on foggy days that cut up
dresses and dangerous homing instinct. She’s never done anything like that
before, she’s usually a curly childminder with hills to climb under and ceiling
grates to defy with earth-shattering broom handles. Are you still there, tykes?
The clothes are telling of friendship and the wanting of beady eyes all on you
for your bearded moments.
‘You
say that you were hungry, that only chocolate ranks would do but we can’t
identify chocolate ranks because we are just a Disposition League used to lie
about sinking link. You make lunch in wondrous ways. You go on as quick as you
can and get your tools ready for the yearning of suffered posteriors. You’re a
wonder to behold when we put those ceiling grates back up with grafted skin and
martyred plastic. You know all the old fools, all the army peacocks, all the aggrieves
you can cause with just a few poorly-CGI’d rats and plain red screwdrivers.
Lambs of chickens, turkeys of mutton, scissors on a stick. You make it all
happen.’
I can hear noises that signify that
indications are correct about the forecast that the trees have it that
everything will be fine, hunky-dory, exemplary, timely and not at all grey
around the gills. The coy mistress of badgers makes herself special every
morning just to show that not all handymen are made equal, they trick their
clothes and cut up the sound bites into iddy-biddy bits of silver on mint-free
pillows.
‘I am worried about her, we are worried about her, you
are coming home to itchy murder. I am a growling dog, we are a nibbling pack,
you are ready for the inevitable drum roll. I am at my nerve’s end, we are at
the end of the pinch, you are yourself in derelict tunefulness. I have started,
we are starting, you starts.)
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