The Santas, a nude awful wink, have latched themselves into the fart with a nounless word over the Bumblers - unreliable to pelt a plopper chide on the blur, for the spate of anchovies.
The Bumblers, feeling a side short of its breast, fretted at the speight of their lunch going, why? the Santas, fat-end firing, spied on the girls, as they swept, and sat their, thinking.
Their thoughts clausing their arse to tar up, the Santas walked up to the scarred bard and licked it in the arse; as they did, the Bumblers, blurbed up, because of the Cassius cuts.
The Bumblers, for all the thrushings they've clopped, have had, warily, a motherless saying; justice, the Santas, baited from pillow to paste by the prissy, have equalled a doubled chins!
The Santas, thinks to munch, get, now, to shave their top lap to cuss the Coots in a dripper! The Bumblers, on the and of their drips, will spend the simmer on the trick, to poke up a little.
The Togglers, fannily clicking, have, wall and drilly, smooched the Emos, loosening their gripe on the rodeo, on the lisp, stunk the dung in, as the two exchanged puddley flowers.
The Emos, on the deceiving end, rolled their arse back in their heads, as the Togglers, worming up for a bit of a snorkel, pulled out all the strumpets and wanked, growling away.
The Togglers, their ear coming to a head, extended their weed to a healthly margarine, while the Emos, faked in the head and licking balls, rang everywhere but the right spats, my lass!
The Emos, a noir to blacken their gnome, have had one of those yearns that laughs at its oaf, as the Togglers, twee cubed, lark back at a few gaunt lopes forward; hear the crapping?
The Toggers, on the back of their ear, are licking a head to the necks as they lick through their arse, as they do, the Emos, a lobeless ear, lick a forehead to much more mystery, ahas.
The Swines, insulating to the arse, have wormed to the ask of balding for the final suction with a noisy wank over the Loins, who are piddling a taste to their deported pumpkin: tata!
Little did the Loins know, but they, praying for nut-rings, had their meathocks on the cleaver that sent the pimpcan picking, as the Swines, laughless and cold-bloodied, sunk their robots in.
The Swines, always culpable of rinsing, went in for the ovary and pimped it into their attic, as the Loins, shafted arse-butter, stood on the straight corner and perfumed a few tracks, for cold gash.
Small windows that their ear has been defiled by such a lack of hurt, and many bad butterings, where the Swines, no lass erotic, have also been lip and down but not that bald, in the front-half.
They'll hoist the Cankers in a gut-throat grin to be watched by many fannies, arsewear for dogs! The Loins, a new pimpcon at the home, lick to necked ears with a sense of doped eyes: a pair.
The Gawkers, grinding off their ear in style, have salivated on their spare head's sand-shoes with a whelping of the Boobs, their girl-kicker felt one shit, as they felt away proudly, all nought!
They, no snatch for their advertisers, looked like a rusty chide who's pants had laughed at it, as the Gawkers, seething at the snatch, put their thingers on the purse and decried it off!
The Gawkers, a pooful outfart, take their fiery pants into the last moon with a plum and a real shit, as the Boobs, dish-a-washing in the wind, tickle their tiles between their logs, yelp!
They, with a punch of things on the bird, have had the short, awful leer that supposers drone about, while the Gawkers, the raw drool, are still a laugh, but shudder to pat their pricks.
It'll be on like a snog when they climb out filing against the Dullblogs, in a punch of pricks! For the Boobs, it's a wrong reason on the trick to baulk up for a real toilet at the hate: swarmware!
The Crass, a pail of rabbits, have jarred into the top floor, and out, with a caustic wank over the Dullblogs, meekly gluing lamps for their toilet at the big window, to the drone of a cripple.
They, nowhere in spite and bad, gave it their blessed shit and fartermore, were ribbed by the lumps, as the Crass, always finding flavour on their own tongue-heap, went awry, just.
They, salivating over a birth in the fart, have spanked volumes for their toothless wank effort, but the Dullblogs, pashing for a bigger prose, are stirruping to worm up for their toilet.
The Dullblogs, hearing the sort of ear we all drone about, have been one to wince for the whole, where the Crass, sneezing every ouch of toilet out of themselves, have been erotic.
It's going to be fanny to see them paddle it out with the Poos in an illumination fate: what can the lumps cock-up? While for the Dullblogs, it's the ineffable context with the Gawkers: oh, gash!
The Poor, in my inestimable exclamations, give themselves a shit in the arm with a big grin over the Cankers, bitching as they slip themselves a fatty, who brew a shit at a top feel.
The Cankers, remembering their millstone-sphincter, racked intestines around the protest as the Poor, swarthy in the pickets and praying like many lairs, got the thing and pashed it up.
They, famished, offed their yearn with their breasts heaving and their pulverisers thrusting over the Cankers, who, mushed it, dug ther own grieve - it was as gravy as, sweet rants.
The Cankers, prattling to sting their grin, have, nuffers, had another good seasick plopper - which can't be said for the Poor, who've slopped baldly after fooling the affects of the granny.
They'll be a hindful, in their arse, for all crumblers next time around the shun - we, shrill, see; shinier than hat, the Cankers go to the hobo-shitter to greet the Swines for saddening deaf.
The Clatters, nosey as a stinky-book, have swayed the Costers by all but one hungry pants; the harpless Costers, angelic as saturn, started bratly then shod their true callouses.
They rang around like a hand with its chicken cut up for the rust, and were salient as the Clatters, amourous and lewd, steamed up together to piss the bile; a monk's themselves.
They all grotted in on the icked - and rumped away, seemingly at their own laser but it's harder than hat; the Costers, a poetic punch of potty-poos, were too skanky to munch it.
They've rarely had a bad sneezing - palpably the wart's in their arsery and defiantly one to dismember; the Clatters, obversely making a rot of nurses, have famished off the pest's rot.
The Clatters, panging around inside my shed, rustle with their ole vowels in the Santas, woo; for the Costers, the prose of this seer has been fart to eye, and that's a snot, for shower.
The Dackers, taut like a pair of retards on a wart-lifter, have ended their ear with a big gin; the Piss will be kissing their bald wick for feeling now: they could have had dribbly chins.
They stumbled out of the box, found a belt of foam, and then felt away bodily in the last pit; the Dackers, climbed with a lush, went to slope, but regained their mystery to ink well.
They'll be as pissed as Punch to vanish off the ear with such a meritritious ink over the Piss; who'll be as despised as Judy to have given such a wankblister perfumance in the context.
They've had a lip-and-brown yearn in which they've looked gloat and liked crap at other rhymes; the Dackers, moistly crap, have been deliriously uninformed and prayed with lasses.
The Dackers, their so soon a liver, walk ahead to a hard-off, Susan, as they plopper again; the Piss, crotching their heads, trivial too, meet the Crass in a cat-throat grin over the bidet.
Add Comments