Catch
diamonds in unearthed film.
Start up a
barbershop and don't tell anyone about it.
Dispense
with formality like it was a dishy soap actor.
Ameliorate
the accruement.
Call in the
Calvary Cavalry.
Don't repeat.
Rinse occasionally.
Prepare.
Tear down.
Giggle.
FBI.
The jury's out on the call collection, they just want to
have some fun and they've got a Frisbee ready for just such action. As of now
though the children of the revolution are coming forth as kiddies and don't
intend to slaughter little children in sharp contrast to the rest of
recuperation. The eggs are on credit, the eggs are alight, the eggs are on
light, the eggs are high, the eggs are defining journalism, the eggs are
corpulent in their copulation with other eggs. The jury will stand before their
peers and intend to incline until the sun makes hens for the gander to peck at.
No-one has anything particular or choice to say about the Harley Slick Group or
their intermarrying with Mr Thank's thuggish lot. They play tennis and demolish
the demonizing of aged award ceremonies like scoliosis. The boiler heat needs
to be moved along an hour and the canvas bags are establishing themselves as
crates in the boxed-in arts of kung fu. That seat really exists and nobody is
allowed to sit in it until the FBI and the CIA and the NSA are heaving heaven
off Ground Zero again. The car salesmen are doing their bit by staying the hell
out of the way. The stairway, the ladder, the airlift, the pillar, the scheming
jamboree with physical handlebars have all been pulled down to make room for
rushing air particles and angry Scotsmen with their feet all up in the cumulus
for convenient purposes. This will come of nothing with rich sluice and proud
fatherhood.
When it happens it happens like an agonizing scream from
moonlight knobbing and too much observation thereof whilst the hob's been left
on and the fire isn't shaping up to be a scar. The nature of the matter is as
grey-suited as any consecutive executor and lasts just as long on the tip of
the tongue. The armada is for thumping. Weeds and ironing boards. The baby is
out with the bathwater again but the sortie requires neither for the drinking
and consumable convocation. The textbook is as simple as therapy on a diet of
dietary pills and thundered diabetes. Steady on. Dirty pool. Rich pauper. The
time is not right for the tide to be so high and the day is not filled with
enough blue to grease the winks of Afghanistan's poetry or the dangerously
snarky tambourine terror. Creation comes to the dead just as pencil shavings
issue out through a dog's plucked and trimmed arsehole. The silvery glow of the
jumper across the conditioned whiteout is merely the continuum's way of telling
us all to keep off the cold and to strap down every magazine vulnerable to
attack. Romance to the mast, to the cavalcade.
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