Electrocution
on a mass scale would work the skinflints to te bone and tape their green,
green grass at home to te chins were the buttercups usually go. Just as we
shuffle around British India, te swarm is treated randomly and viciously and
curmudgeonly like some sort of flatulent pigeon with great harmonium skills. Te
buzz goes on like petty officers, with ten situations under their belts and a
scar on the sequins of their trousers. Te barrel of a rifle makes for a ram
raffle that typifies greasy cartridges for terrible people with metallic,
chromatic fangs of error singing.
Safe
conduct across the Bordeaux while the wily rebels open fire on all wine racks.
Bodies of work hacked to pieces for the fruits of a laborious afternoon
involving only one single spot of high tea and not even a polite note from the
full-lipped hunchbacks of yesteryear's bedroom tax. I'm relevant in a dreadful living
space. Cordially.
Te
chief correspondent is now in HD and carries revitalising yoghurts precisely
because te appendage in the contract dictated it to be so in lustful gaze of te
lustful accountants and their screechy, Neolithic sisters with their lurking
racism. Te salivating is te true
salvation salvo.
Pour
out te lemonade and sprinkle it with sandwich filler. Make frail te swimming
pool and react spitefully to lower temperatures. God rewards intervention
because he knows that face over there and te resemblance is truly remarkable
for a bastard such as he sees at that witnessed moment. Te streets are not safe
from recollection, crawling out from te worm patch of yet another brawl. Look
upon this fine blot of package information and catch te gentleman before he
regains status through te power of jail-tattered chests. Te girl who smiles
like a cat catches no isles on her absentia nick. It was te women who arose to
te soothing sound of grog on te po-po radio.
Look
upon your sins before te pencil case will name te trade of its supercilious
owner. Could it be that he's some sort of shallow apparition in lonely dance
shoes that were just to slovenly to pay for themselves. Retract statements
while te going is honing one's craft for a much older man to fight without te
benefit of heavy artillery and other metaphorical staircases. We've already
seen te people rise once, what else can they actually do without tying back
their hair and ploughing through cunning videogames about heel football.
Te
goal of te attack will rankle te start all te way to te finish line because
none of its true, precisely because none of its beyond te understanding of
little people. Te journey goes on with football music blaring and motor access
disabled with unrepentant clangs of a dinner bell. Don't hurt them, you
foul-breath critics of critics, don't hurt their ample rotundity, their
presence of mental forgery, their intense scribbling of translation and te
rough soup it mortifies with its flora tissues and its fauna redactions.
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