The
folksinger had a step-child and that step-child had a prostrate prostate and
they all went off into a thimble and lived hurtfully ever after. Nine o'clock
does this to you, to your forceful blow to the head, it turns you alternatively
and alternately and doesn't forgive the balance of the testes. Awesome
intermediates can't help but wallow in their own political stanzas, they cannot
give up their juice pantry to the shrouds of ninjas that want to become a part
of it, to buy a share. You just thank these kinds of men and let them have your
onions and hope they don't spit up on your sleeve cuffs and frequent the haunt
between your legs. Asthma does the best it can to dull the sixth sense but the
printers with scanner functions are fighting a strong battle.
Is
there any wonder? Taping in the morning and you come down on Saturday with a CD
from the king and his hockey fixation coach. Lunchtime wouldn't do for either
of them so you'll just have to be a gracious host with your pyjama bottoms
around your ankles. Flicking the dishes with your mind spray won't change the
channelling or the hype surrounding its imminent dance display. It's making a
friendly rampage to the effect of a perfume dispenser. It wants people to open
their forelocks to a mere devastation. It would like to go get the laminator's
attention.
Together
you pull apart the tank engine and spark up the pretty blonde children with the
reticent fire. Leave thighs ablaze. The beady heartbeat is making teddy bears
out of the corner scones of my spiritualism, it is honing them into a perfect
opaque circle with which we can bollocks up most speaker systems with
electrical interference. It was a sound wave that broke the nose of our head of
Spanish Business Buzzing. The morpheme should have left my pure class alone and
should spend the rest of its life leaving gentleman with sore throats and red
scarves alone so that they world can charm along to its goal. We all can fall
down with skill, we can cope with the cupping with impressive greenery. It
solders the wet doors together and becomes desperate in its downward spiral,
like a wad of cash off a Duchess' back.
My
couples therapy sessions are double-booked and the man with pine tree hair is a
perpetual barefaced cheek tweak and needs to be stopped before he clamps down
on the speed dating events within this area, within that specific pub. Surface
areas are being depleted by his insider action and the token black dudes are
wanting out of the secularisation that tends to follow. They have catapults and
they aren't afraid to use them to deface atheist arguments in case they roll
out and over all selfish. Whistles and harpsichords play with sheepdog
intensity and the can-can goes on and sets off the pregnancy alarm bells.
We
just do what we can while we shouldn't.
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