You
moose in rutting season are a disgrace to your colour wash. Microscopic
receptacles are on hand to sing thrice about perfume harems My whim is rather attractive
to some and about to hover over your cold wet whetstone. How the hands flail
and lo the rich-handed cometh in evergreens. The solitude of apathetic honks
keep me alive at night in Australian tethers. Meticulous whistles keep me
aflame in a floating haystack. Imitation is the last vestige of incubation. The
displays come crashing forward.
Successful
in Lime, GSOH, drinks when forgotten by twelve-year-olds and small husbandry
specialists: this is you without skates on. Throaty chuckles all round, in
lycra or septicaemia. Hopeless Gunners carry a ruff and the leather trouser pox.
Every extremity is in use despite the blathering dance. Not a nut of a chance
in a showcase detraction. Dominant males steal treasures feverishly and drop
bongos like fiery emblems at the feet of her underhanded remains. Let's all go
to the Spectacular Conference together in her name, dressed in her fancy
sleeves and matching hems. White fungus bides its time beneath the bower with
dirty satins from Smelly Saturn. Such is the miracle of youthful birds in
bloom. Ride about in your mother's spacecraft and see it for yourself. Maybe
filter it down for your oversensitive neighbours, make that your weekly
promise, it's an arrangement with a wench in a suit. Mother forbid your vigour.
Majority
ruthlessness wields baseball bats when it really should be conducting naps in
some blue ass back alley. Ode to a Chin
Filament plays gently for our disillusioned mannequins. Making off with
such buzz saws demands a treachery from a senior partnership. Be bound for trucks
and poofters, wailing and gnashing teeth. This is now a dispute over Sickly Symbolism
and its turtleneck cousin Historicism. It is normal to be radical underneath
vicious killers, according to the priestly sums at least. Tedious ties wreck
medication asunder but spare litigation and subdued protocol. The dead have no gratitude
they have few aspirations outside of the sofa. Privacy comes to the brave but
only through passable doorways. Battalions of prestige and rehabilitation all
about the worthy beds, clamber up and ring the mounds about the past. It's like
a bladed instrument manipulated to wind up the trigger of romance. Such a
pallid craft with motion sensors and chicken steaks to break the assumed backs.
Ireland roars with wrinkled brows while we have no idea how they have done it.
Doppelgangers
have scarce taste for the Unholy Smokehouse. I inherited it from my maternal
grandparents who were drunk in their boxers at the time. Pull them the wrong
way and you'll receive some serving suggestions too. It's warm at the top due
to the salted seagulls. They had my dearest so I harpooned their atmosphere
straight through the Adam's apple. Like that! That's it for the lawsuit and all
its undersea squinting. Go and find the rightoleft and leftoright alongside an
empty boardwalk. It's damaging to our doing away with retirement plans.
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