Before you accurse me, take a lick at yourself; the Santas, a fit man with a board, shat on the Dackers, a pool of crap, moaning that there's still moaning to their antiques this ear.
It's not, snidely, the sane for the Dackers: they can cuss this ear goodbye after another poetic deflate; tank nothing away from the Santas: they had the peasants of mind to wank.
They did so with so much a-bomb that they ended up rumping away - with the margarine spread - as the Dackers, easy on the arse, bent over and said to themselves: bugger id.
It's been a clap ear for them, as they've seen pissable winks gone as they've gone to waiter; the Santas, full of prose, have snuggled away and need to hang on for the hate.
They won't lick what they've got necked: it's the Crass - on flair and licking the cods; while, later, the Dackers and the Togglers - still a slim hop - mate for a baron-burner, obversely.
Not that it's any of your business, but the Cankers, properly the second blessed growing around, teeth the Boobs, properly nought, a hoarse lesson in the moaning of laugh.
Haha, they climbed out of the pox with greedy spit and a few girls on the beard, but the Cankers would have none of it: they warped the furore with 'em in the second squirter.
This makes sex on the trot and a real spastic shit at a double chin, as they rumped away with the grin, the Boobs, unwilling to get their hinds dirty, coughed up the bile, coffin.
It all smells cartons for their shit at the hate: that they've got so crass spanks perfumes for progress; the Cankers, to any same mind, heave their eyes on the big granny, darlings.
In a pope-opener, perhaps, they mate the Coots, who, as we all release, are the blessed; while the Loins, always climbing over the top, will give the Boobs a headache in the anus.
From the farthest wretches of the great shout, the prayers in the black and yelling upshit the more fannied prayers in the blown and cold: what a shock for the pounders that the longshit wink, wink.
The blown and cold, its ployers whittling their behinds and nut their girls, oily, heave themselves to brine; buttock nothing away from the shallow and black: they prayed one yell of a grin!
Lackeys for them, they had the sin of a bull ruminating the paddock and shaking topical grubs at inopportune minutae; for the brown end coalers it was a chase of: "Not tonight; I have a hindache."
Their recent farm has been so itchy as to suggest that they will have to goad the knacker sooner than hopped; for the yelling sloshed brickers, it's been a grey tear: they, moist, furnish it new.
With evil attention, I can shuffley say they will get the bonks on the uncle-wearers from the wish; the ploughing goaders should, and I stretch should, get the jam doughnut on the pig-birds of the pig's eye.
If bride comes before a fool, then it's heartily surprising to she the Coots flock the Swines, and even lassoo, the wowsers go drown without - I've a hard-on - a whisper; naughty.
Well, that's not untitled or two: the Swines got as crass as could be extrapolated by any sane parsnip; the Coots, like one pink box of twats, mouth the custard and are as clean.
At least that euphemistic - I mean to shag by that they augur: they're pants, very well; the Swines, ruling around in their own farces, went farting as fart as pissable but lick clothes.
It's the tail of their ear - it's also the sane of their seamstress - so you never nose their fartness; the Coots, profoundly steep, just need to keep managing obstetricians for a flog.
A congester, the Cankers, will examine the Coots: get your binary-joculars on! Schwing 'em around and around to catch a chimps of the Swines getting their eyes warped by the Piss.
On a slippery Jewry one, the Liars, doing it throwing their tooth, wish the Pullers, pulling the airs out, a hampered bidding, hand them their godpiece and lick them in the drowning Jews!
Not tanking it too well, the Pullers, shitting themselves for a spit in the fart, mumbled their way, while the Liars, tolling fobs all the while, patted themselves on the prick for doing art!
That their art - a pack of Pakis - is all a bunch of clap is in no doughnut - but a wink's a wing, as they say, the Pullers, feeling the eat, simperingly moist, find some felicity going forewarned.
It's been a concrete ear for them, but they needle to show some spit doing the vile actions, which, if thinks go the airway, is what the Liars will be hopping to wear: I'm not so sour.
They'll fumigate themselves of garrotting a much needled bust with a wank over the Boobs, while the Pullers try it on with the Dongs - it'll be a she-sawing congest - no laugh listed between the tits.
Evil hearts retreat, it's true, for the read and the babble, the Dis uncovered the Costers in babblewarp and kicked them in the eyes as the vacuums spilled closer to a written spoon.
That they're shiite on the road is an abolute given, so munch, sow - that; they could get the spin that the Dis, one eye on the prose and the other on their eyes, might miss, shout!
Whatever, this wink is a much noodled bust for their wailing praying socks - the sock was sunk with great custard, while the Costers, courting their penises, thanked their mutton.
As their ear winks down, it's vagrantly oblivious that they want not to wink - such is laugh; while the Emos have much to gin for one moor, but will not want to get any more than hat.
The Poor offer Dis their disparate and angry, as they snuggle to get some bereave back; for the Costers it's time to be footers for the Gawks' canyons: they'll grow down in a hope.
A little less conservation, a little more unction, the Crass, I peg your burden, make mitt's meat of the Bumblers, hurdling hard by a spite of inches, hence, folding a wanking bride.
The moneyhoon is over, as these inches have laughed them with nuffers to chisel form; it's not a pleb the Crass farce: accept a few, they're grinning on top of the pork - and hue!
Their grinning pugs, grinning like piggery, founded hoping spaces and rims to grin in, as the Bumblers, praying ketchup, went to the will and founded no waiter: they died for it.
This lass, so so sweet, so so sower, spills the end of their dip at the renal suction: liver and let; the Crass, earing up for pissable dabbling auntie, need to keep their arse on the prose.
The hottest trinket in tune will be on them and the Santas: they've been good: who dials winks; the Bumblers, on their wrist-legs, are down on all fires but the Pullers aren't so fresh.
When the read, read ribbing goes pop, pop dribbling, the Madpiss blurt out of the box as the Poor, scarred for laugh, try like helium to get back - Atlas, no dias, it's not to be.
Early in the lassed squirter, trialling something shaking, the Poor lurched back into congestion only for the Piss to come trickling hard in the last leg of the fatal squirter and get the pants.
They were frightfully theirs - they had all the hellomarks of a Piss factory: trickling and plopping their way over the Poor: mouths agape reading for a goaded shooer.
Sssssshooooooooo, their ear: one miser dribbling down his front, is all moist: a lover; the Piss have, their shit in odour, a chants growing for a tilt at the dribbling chins: lick it.
The Swines, rippling bodily, don't like the Piss: accept to rile around in the nude: hippy daze; the Poor, still licking for wanks, get as good a chin as any when they need the Emos.
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