If
a worship could be nicer, my hands would be trembling with smuggler kisses and
sir and madam would actually eventually definitely be found. The lords are
admirals here and admirable in that wry way in which they dress seen from the
rebel ship. The force is as stern as assets in death, as the chuckling lunge
would and might happen. Eat with a mud hut and you become the new settle.
Patience and height: the boy has neither. Was I any different from readymade
trading while I was right there, a serious chap in a good looker's business? I
wasn't, no. You won't fail me again for fear and other purposes too tangy to
leave and put forth on the tabletop.
React
accordingly to the cave and the shadows it contains because the light won't
always leads you outdoors where its safe. But wait a minute, there's more.
There's always more, winged with freshness and on the committee as a balanced
member with big red tape to establish who they are to the users on your back.
Your body must become an auditorium for muesli and a comfy set of space seats
for space age flying vehicles. Stay with me on the island, whistling like a
little green git like me. My ears are pinned back as ever. All trajectories
alerted and high on their own produce, sums and other malleable stuff o'
nonsense. Surrender and switch to lightspeed for any ideas and shines from
cardsharps and other duplicitous, long-sighted calls to detachment.
You
dream while I beckon the earthly ridicules and she won't even latch on to the
hydraulics until 2098. For as long as we've all known each other, the sunshine
hasn't bothered to prove any one constituent wrong in his or her delivery of
scissor-based puns. The yoghurt falls like sick from a dearth-minder's mouth,
lips remaining sullen and retracted by newspaper moguls trying to cover their
backs before the police catch on to the army's involvement. Some might say that
berries can be plucked for cereal in the morning but we live in the choked
suburbs so, for all our wise earnings, we cannot quite be as free as the birds.
The oven has farthings to spill and laundry detergent to soak them in.
It's
a proviso, you know, this fence-sitting game of invention; it's a big spoon
striking the back of a long donkey with the hump of a camel. In short we're
lightly battering deformation because that's precisely what mother told us to
do when father was on the sauce again and reading from all the holy books with
wide-eyed buttering of syllables. We have to create before the direct-to-videos
come flooding out from the balustrades, from between them. We don't mind doing
it and we certainly shouldn't insofar as our cousins in New Zealand have no
problems with moss, eldritch or otherwise. Turning on a dime, on a penny, on a
placard, on a Derry Dada while the rest of the world is being useless at a
horse show.
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