Stick a firecracker in me! I'm a dunny. The Togglers, creaking like boogie-woogie, have smooshed the Oglers. I had to revert my arse to save my fist.
The Oglers, startled politely, went to waiter at the merest haunt of treble. The Togglers had a nitpick in the second squirt and just went: "It's time for a potty!"
The potty was in the mouth of their gal, where they all just went, pang, pang. The Oglers, endearing themselves, sat it out on the belch, as is their warranty.
Noseless to fuck, they're forked in the rear and, prolapsed necks. Arse wail that winds well. The Togglers are up for a plinth and a ditch. Geese, they're ockers.
The Bumblers, no lass on the up and a spit, will gift them a good munch: could go ether awry; the Oglers, in nose of some spit, face the Loins, disparate.
Fake a duck! The Dullblogs, not hard to find but hard to tickle, have minged a wink-minge-lick olefactory over the Emos - they're pants hingeing on to their wrinkles as it all hopped on.
It's a tantamount to their scourge that, hey, did all rort against a top fart fanny. The Dullblogs are hat and so, munch more. They had to, as is their needle, wick quietly. Hard to see them ooze.
I love to admit that I, atonally insane, couldn't pare to watch as the Dullblogs put it to the Emos in such a way as to leave money bereavelss. The Emos, their fleeings expose for what they aren't, just went.
Their ear, needless to stray, is on the rug but with thongs licking up off the vealed, they do have some cause for hop. The Dullblogs, hard to lay a hind on, are up for some sore arse action: final suction.
The Clitters and they mate in one for all offers of the grate grin: it's tops, farces, scones: I'm ready for scream. The Emos, unlikewise to the inverts when they try to rapefrog the snuggling and pantless Dackers.
By Jehovah, I think they've drowned a rat! The Gawkers, that is, and the Swines, that is. It was a grin where we, sore, the word, which from all resorts is cod-given, handed over the mental from Gawk to Swine.
The Swines, under immense pleasure and croaking like a nailed pantsing, were left off the pillock by the Gawkers, perforated like a minge in a twee outside your widow, who had muppety chins in their front bites, yep.
Their pleasure on the bile-scurrier, given their lass of coy prayers, was a slight for sorry ays, matey. The Swines got the pill, licked up, and just went : "Fork me, dead!". It was in this fein that they went asunder. Yes, sorry.
The Swines, tired like a hock in a potful of the mad, will, I'm whaling to belt, not milk the top fart. The Gawkers are absolute minties for the fop tart, but shoo sings of crumbing apart at the screams. So well couched, potatoes.
The Santas, coming in through the letter, will pelt them to a bitter off, attest! While the Swines, get to try one on on their beanies -the Boobluggers. I'd rager to say that the ladder never had a blither choice than this. Win!
Eat shorts and dial! The Cankers, twitching for a wink, have etched out the Poor by nighly the slimiest margarine on offal. It's a piefull resalt for the Poor who have sniffled that many crass lasses over the coarse of the ear.
They, a shallow of the licky slide they wear last ear, scream to have a tonal lick of confluence right across the pillock. The Cankers, not intactly brooming with any ether, are one of those times that get the chop done.
This one, one they wearily noded, couldn't have arrived at a shandier time: they wearily needed one. Lick nothing else. The Poor, on the hope and with their chins, just fell shit of the scare that would have cornered them the pants.
As I creep, saying: "The Poor are forked,". It's cartons for them, but no spanner to go with the word. The Cankers, scratchy as piggery, will need to impoverish on their affects. Painfully, they lick crass in the coy pastes.
The Pudmuddlers, top fart nancies, have a thong for the Cankers: they just can't shack them, so felch out! The Poor, bereft of many, will have a liphole bottle when they tickle the manured Cows. It's the shirtdown, papal!
As if thongs couldn't geld any wars! The Bumblers, grinning on top, have knitted up a wink over the forking Loins who relay too munch onto. Phew!
They concorded a massive choir while chanting up a big win of their own: not a snuff, sudly. The Bumblers, doing their grinning thong, grinned away.
Shot, that's a pig wind for the smiley gays from Bumblerland - the Loins, so used to groining at them, had, I fought, the word on them. Nought to beetle.
It leaves me finking. They might slap out of the hate, and if they donkey they'll slip out earthily; the Bumblers, prolly won't, but have renowned hop, now.
They click the Togglers in a buttress that pips two foals, aghast one, a nutter the ether; the Loins need a wink and heave the good lick of mating the Oglers.
Does my farce look read? The Clits, so smooth and exciting, have taken the trowel to the lapless Dackers with a whipping lass.
They went the knicker early, but it only slaved to milk the Clits, erotic to that pant, click into gore and they just went: bang, bang!
It was a complex whiplash as ailing eyes were on them as they tickled hard and made everything fin. The Dackers were fucked.
As they are, so shrill they be. They have, it screams, no rum in their logs; while the Clits, purring hippily, are curtains for the big one.
The Dullblogs, no sloshes themselves, will noir have a bladder chins to give it to them, while the Dackers and Emos brittle for the span.
As poured as hat shit! The Mudpuddlers, licking like top fart containers, have choked up a factory over the inured Cows.
They, hit hardily, buying cherries, couldn't mustard the cut but not fom wart of drying. The Mudpuddlers were too Dyonisiac in their front bits.
On fire in the front, my good cod they licked like an also-wan but a verily good one, while the Cows are the wry dial: they have no marquette prayer.
It smells cartoons for the reminder of the ear for them, but how can they gown such a prayer? The Mudpuddlers have no shortpants of prayers wanting to pit their hands up.
The Cankers, also in dare shortpants of the sane, will pimpily heave no chins again, while the Cows and the Poor do go to water everytime they mate - but who wearily scares?
Declare wart and call me a Sisyphus! The Aints, wallying late, have done the jibe over a fist-varnising Booblugger side at the hole of farty.
They licked like a last widdling boil eerily when they messed their chins with wild shorts. The Aints, all hat, maidened them play. A fee for all.
You have to hound it to them. They've got it growing on, booby. While the Boobluggers are justly so grin around the galls. In the head.
They'll be monacle wankers if they do make the hate, for they're forked up front. Wherearses, the Aints have options and tic-tacs.
The Gawkers, hooking for somethong, will farce a taste in a rapper of a minge, while the Swines will bleat the Boobluggers. Arse airways.
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