The
sceptical tick of magic, arranged like a barracuda and it's singing quartet. Garrisons
and other Tory factions demand that the Torah be returned to its original seat
of power within the gladdening vortex. To view the filth from there is akin to
sinking bullets that don't respond to cordial epidurals. It's mystical to be
rust and don't let them ask you why in case you haven't got a little dance
prepared. It's got to be a flamboyant number or no-one will listen, it just
goes that way with these kind of people. The curls in your Styrofoam should say
enough with dramatic gusto. Yes it is imperative that you listen to me and my
men of mediocrity.
Questing for duration will lead to
nothing but Yugoslavian preparation. Kindness has no effect on the armaments of
the Hurdled Dragon and all its weeping women. But why are they weeping? It's
the sort of thing that drives the sadist to distraction with lingering qualms
and cigarette drags. Pulsating suggestions can't hold this ship together and
you should be paying more attention to how the tears roll against the sallow
cheek. Tassels and reclusive productivity and heretics and sandwiched drafts.
It's not as sweet as the bulging cowards would have you believe. If you want my
opinion, distrust every cat's opinion before you open the Can of Sardinia. There's
nothing that can be unsaid except the flashes and bangs of high office, no
bells or whistles attached. They explain it in the guide because they have to.
Because the ghastly rigid fingers
shoulder the holster like something out of a Halloween pageant. It's jousts
with boasting begonias! It's a nepotistic asinine comment from Santa! It's a
dreary whisk flung into the lap of a Jurassic Sebastian! It's surly and that's
all that really needs to be said about. The ports are calling through the
bathtub and will bind the fjord with lipstick and clothes hangers. Flagellation
and nowt more. Grandeur and all of his guff will not be tolerated whilst you
reside within these eight walls. Defy my wrath and you shall taste the piccolo
and forget who you're rooming with. Indeed, fear my mother. She has the ability
to tear pipes in two and scatter the resounding fractures like something out of
a Blyton book. I'd eat the extract if I were you but then what would there be
for a glowing dessert?
Scotsman of Dereliction and the gutter
filled with greasy fields, let my fealties go unpunished or avoid the hand of the
Crashing. I stutter like a broken Cherokee filled with lemony vitality and all
its inhibited negligence. Ice for the public! Snow for the sinister! Let down
your bra straps! See the sluggish and trample them with a crispy whetted beard.
Trumpets under guardians and dialectic eye drops. Homely hominids are
daydreaming with tunnel systems that quantify the heartless crudity. Stampedes
like angels on resolved handsome validity, he wears it like a tweed suit. He
forgot the underpants.
Inspiration = http://mrpondersome.tumblr.com/
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