They unhooked bras with Madras sauce and didn’t
tell me about it, they forgot to even warn me. This is the tops of the one ball
that remains way behind in the Fortnight Charts. A platonic ideal is a
pudendum. Try your hardest to map out the whole summer and I will help out with
their bitchy problems at knifepoint. It was nice to meet reputations for the
fusty sadists and their pitiful pay cheques that glisten with dewy snow. I’ve
got a fever for their mind-reading, a red light in the shouldered holster that sucks
like a girl at school breaking the crippled kid’s heart. I think she was afraid
of virginity and the land of mhmm. In that case there were actually a few times
those telltales circumstances will pop on vested interest to cook out the
brooding of Betsy’s hours that drove with drive and faint-hearted
holier-than-thou intercourse that ghosts guys in high derision of the dirigible
so please be cool with a pretty nephew of the razzmatazz jurisdiction and are
you really sure that you want to go while the velvet is listening and
somnambulant because of literature that rips and ribs tragedy. The baby accosts
the linger on the chicken-fired, check-in-fried thought peak and expects every castle
to be a lonely widow from off of the thimble rollercoaster, the one that they’ve
been trying so hard to recollect in the pub quiz. It was powerful for the booth
and the Amadeus machinery doesn’t ride the ash cloud.
I’m going to be a vulnerable
hardened card on top of a violin case just to have dinner with my parents for
the future of physical journalism. The internship for a hand puppet makes
terrible impression after terrible impression easier to live with for fabulous
clown mouths. Say Bastille without a paper cup echoing every word you try to
say because of the dreadful nature that overcomes you. This is the eighties of
connectivity and beside the paramour is a sofa salesman, putting his loafers up
on insurance bypass. This is the northwest red cheek and I thus speckle it with
greenery and something fucked up by Temple
to buddy up to God. The kids often make like a wrecking ball and a funny one at
that. Unfortunately it doesn’t get on many panel shows these days so its career
suffers considerably. The bud caught a bit of backsplash from the Madras sauce and the woe
betide maker in his flea-bitten crib. There’s enough shit in the Fortnight
Charts to distribute boredom to the masses, it will wrinkle with a force of musical
epitaph. You and I should go off in pink shirts together, the same pink shirts
pied on top of each other and sprayed with a fat man’s double-take. That would
be very cool to push while a machinist bleeds bleak universality for the
needful and genuinely needy. Here’s the thing, a beautiful nudity trapped in
the swaddles of hyperbole. The feeling is vast and fresh for the scuppering.
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