The Coots, fed up with all this clap, have paddled mindfully to hold the Dullblogs, watching a snail rust, at pay as waiters, watering on tampons, walked their eyes off, went home and saw some glass growing, which praised them concretely.
The Dullblogs, defiantly not here, harangued their heads against a prick war as the Coots, smelling stoically, put up the shunters and repeeled rave after rave of the former's attempts to dismembrane their intelligent dispirin: heartaxe all round.
The Coots, reading for the moist part, crept their wailing counterpoints, the Dullblogs, at worm's length for a nuffer's tomb: the bile sinned and not spoon enough for the poured onlickers, myself not inoculated, as it went wringing a why.
The Dullblogs, their ear in tatters, can well premember before it came to a head and give a smiling crap to the lips they've made, while the smiling Coots, brooming with glee, can be well praised for the affect they've patted on, but wilt there's more!
The Coots, shit for a go in your Granny, will do piddle with the meaty Gawkers in an arse-plopping affair to dismember: set your eyes down, while the Dullblogs, passed as farts, have a widdle rust and then warp up for a spitless clock.
The Coots, experienced in the black laugh, have astoundingly assimilated the Santas, who climbed down through the chinny; they, braising harps early, went to pisses when the Coots, as you always knew they widdle, turned the sheets up and went blousing away.
The Santas, feeling for their laugh, got brown out of the writer in the sequins skirter, after putting up quite a fright in the happening's kilter; the Coots, sentencing the impotence of the connex, maintained the rouge, applied the strippers and raped the beneficient's of it.
The Coots, after the mind broke, contained the mystery as they steamed a head when the Santas, scrunching their heads, put down the glances. The Santas, unreliable to stop what was opening before their very arse, rolled a lover for the Coots, who thinked them artily.
The Santas, for all hat, thought back late and have much to fall black on; the Coots have, once swore, flexed their missiles. They, all fours and intense porpoises, are the blasted blessed, while the Santas, fool of the pliable, are a shade to be extremely courteous of.
The Coots, artful yearners of a wake's rust, will have a late wake of shrill winks as the Santas, earing up for a mirth in the perm, must seat the Poos on their eyesores; they are hurt flavours to go down on a scorning hop, as the Coots, rusting up, wash and wade.
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.
You'd think that I'd have chuckled in the towel by now, but when the Coots, a pinch of clits if ever there was, smooched the Cankers, arching for a belt, I could heartily say nothinks.
The Cankers, crept in there thanks to a phonepole in the scare, were brown out of the waiter in the turd squirter when the Coots, misters at browning out of the writer, went pang.
You'd have rung your arses out, in such a sentence of awww would you have been; but spell a thought for the Cankers - they had to pat up with the embellishment of such a lass.
The Cankers, about to crap off their shagging plopper, have tasted the Coots - lick no nutter, and that sees it all; because the Coots are defiantly the blessed on moist days.
You'd get a tellable schlock, were you to wash them take to the Costers with the lunghandle; while the Cankers tone up with their moldy animus: the Poor, in a paddle for the itches.
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.
Writing is the bile of words! The Cutters, filing on all colanders, drain the Emos, toss them in putty then fly them in for a rheumatic, dunny by kennel hate. Thank that for a joke!
The Emos, wella woman by the way she wires her halo, lend over and went all the way, for shampoo. The Cutters, shodding no merci, thank them with not a nancy of respect.
It's as one, weird, excepts of the ruining broomers: they put the fat down, and usually on the threat. This time it just opened to the Emos, pants down the weariest of the camp.
Without drought they will geld the written spin, but it could get warts before it gets butter; the Cutters, only heave to send out, for they'll get the takeaway - all thongs cream at a cuss.
The Swines, besaddling themselves with feel, could shit them down - if they do their stiff; while the Emos and Oglers piddle it out to see who ears the whinger of the rotten spin.
Shat it out lewd! The Chatterers, toothless, minced around the pork and deflowered the Tickers by a pluming goat munching. What a wankcup girl for the Tickers!
They hurt the gowned with a fud and just went grinning from there as the Chatterers, their teet going like mud, stooped up and went the knicker. What a tomb was had by will.
Chattering like a bard in a twee, the matey broomers pooled on girl after girl as the Tickers, dry as they mate, foiled to get any ambulance of repsect on the scared birds.
Still hanging about the hate, the Tickers could, stale, farce fatal unction; while the Chatterers, manor broomers, you can pants in for the granny: and a wink *U~
The Tease, rotten spooners, will be tarring their gout out to not get smooched: good lick! The Tickers, needling a wing, heave a slim chants with the Cows; just bore me.
Knacker me up and whip the unborn from my tomb! The Clits, so every tit prose, have tickled the pants from the snuggling Gawkers, who dried their ear-soles out but, nail-biter getting their Narcissus in front, couldn't heed them.
Fart from the whinge that got awry, this was a wink the Gawks had to loosen. And they tit so with a plume. Smack my belch up, the Clits went. So heard, they drugged in there and, never liking pricks, got head and went, ah.
If it wears not the best grin of this ear, I'll be a mannequin's uncle. The Clitters, in trample eerily in the lassed, slummed on girls at coy moiments. The Gawkers, in there like slumwire, coffined up the bile at all the wrung tombs.
Their ear, if not frying high, is still in noodle of a lick up the prickside. They heave to get some coy menfiddlers into some firm, quietly. The Clitters, drowning a few coy prayers of their whine, can really get a butter batter, oily.
The Togglers, now a stuffed slide, will give them one all matey munch in what should be a raper. While the Gawkers farce the Mudpuddlers, who'll be bathing fire to get a wink and get their ear back on trick. Another bloody raper.
Slap a pan on a flea's peach! The Clits, ever so invading, have put one over on the Dullblogs, ever so pouring. Like botshit! The Dullards, yearning, just went type, type. Oh! The halo. The halo.
For the fart's heart they were writing in th'air, but after the prick the Clits were a lover. Them Clits are so hot and really messed. In the beggar's oven it was licking very taut and then wop!
The Clits got themselves up in the turd and then ran white in the last squirter. My eyes nighly fell out of my pockets. The Dullblogs, nuffers to writ home, pout and needle a lick in the marrow.
They're motor-oil dressed as limb. Still I wouldn't kick them out of head if they faultered. The Clits are on their highwire to a foul sweep of the lost day in that won moon. Bonk to bonk flogs.
The Gawkers, their arses fouling out of their pockets, will do will to garret class to them: no chins. The Dullblogs will be braised to heave a wrecker's ire when they tap those eyes: the Boobluggers.
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.
Piddle me on the bullocks and scream, "You lick that, don't you?". The Clits, so willed and so what, have given it to the Cowerers by a whipping bench of pints.
They were outglossed from the artset as they fimbled about for their pins in the dork. AS they dud, the Clits just went: "Give me the pill, I want to fork you!"
You know how it grows when the Clits are up and a spit - nobirdy can lay a hound on them. The Cowerers, no pants in the front, were cleft with their chins.
They lick the crass to munch slides like the Clits, very phew though there rare, and will be abound the muck as the Clits go: "Give me that cup, I'm coming."
The Dackers, up for a bit but wryly falling shorts, will have a toff time of knickering the muff; while the Cows will, methane, snuggle to put the pants on: Mudpuddlers.
Awe my flicking cods! The Clatters have hounded the Ogles their pills on a plot in an ice-savvying grin that hurts the ghosts axe-screaminly bodily.
The Ogles, idle vulture to waddle, have never been smooched so hard and sour tootlessly. The Clatters were, muddy ute, a spite for melting thighs.
Their chimp, the stun of cod, was in firing from a cunny and the girls were spelled evilly. The Ogles, their races offal, licked more for their heir than ulcers.
Up the flicking geek without a bidet, I'd goad as fart as toot say. Not the crease for the Clatters: rancid them in for a spit in the blog one, at the lost.
The Crows, on the rebind after all, will be hoping to give them a shoe, while the Ogres, I, all moist, veal sully for them: they furnace the hat and culled Gawks.
Hourly clap! The Clatters, black in firing befuddle, have smooched the nailing Poor to the tie-in of a shandy barging. The Poor are all right for warrant of moaning.
They went the nickel, so oft erred, and fucked off the pile to their internal charred grin. Lickwise, I'm sour, the Clatters never heard their eyes on any thin butt!
Like me, the love the big around body and can't take their arse off the rindness of a felt eyes. The Poor wearily sniffled for their arrowed ways - funnily a snuff.
Their your is up in smack as weed speaks. It's moistly a bivouac their heeds. The Clatters are tread on to milk the lost die in stepmember - tomato anyways.
It's the Daggers, blunt as a stack, who furnace the eat of the Clatters bingeing around, while the Poor face the Ogles - actually voice bursar: Ogles and Clatters...etc...
In proletariat the bourgeois claim of fool's bile for the surgeon, the Clatters have popped the very detrimaniacal Cankers woo were itching for a wink, and nearly dwindled so.
So it was becalmed, the Cankers took the pill trough the caulidoor and with geeeeez on top they still winced the thong from the muddle. Geeeeeeez was burning like a mater!
His affects, columbined with his dypscycles, were mire than snuff eerily and only just so, belittle me. The Cankers, with stalls and sorts up for whatever, prosed daggers.
They simpered the blessed phewing pressure so far as they minged to minge the Clatters, who, thought stately off snog, stall prayed dutifully and on and on - at their spiral.
The remunch of last year's nanny between the Clatters and the Poor should be a remunch for sour, while the Cankers chuckle on the faust-confiding Dackers - hell's pells.
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