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.
You can tell a wally by the way he wears his air, as the Togglers so apely demenstruated to the Dackers as they took them to the cloners, warped the floor with 'em and said things.
The Dackers, list for words, shat there and took it like a maniac; pants down and wanking their arse out; the Togglers, plotting up the bloody miss, always had the grin in hand, just!
They held their knave, cussed the pill into each other's hinds and all the time spelled like wowsers, as the Dackers, tartening up, blushed at the thought of shit mammories; jerking!
Their ear has been no jerk, I killed you not, they've waltzed that many crass snatches; obversely, the Togglers have had a chummed laugh, and are still a mythomaniac's chins.
Pat and tickle me, they have the Emos, who's points hinge around their uncle's - a wank's a wink; while the Dackers cross out their yearn with their eyes handed on a prelate, the Piss.
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.
Under the brutal hates of sin, the Swines, a chimp keeping time, do justice, enough, to quicken a wanking scar on the Dackers, hooha, they're chanters and rude, them all.
Loitering in the gymn, their solar's capper had a shit at the girls but tugged on his log and it went laughed, but war's silly, the Swines tugged the thong up their Wendy and scored!
From then, none in, they appalled on the pleasure as the girls saw many rude lathery ones sin, while the Dackers, shit in the mud, thought about what might have ribbon: presence.
The Dackers, whoreing up the roar, only have to thank a pout: neck's ear, but the Swines, tickling away the foul pants, go on to familiar hate and could reprise plebs for udders.
Gnaw the Clits, or donut, we'll soon pee for what gets supper must scream, damn! It's all fit and moron for the Dackers as they attest to shuttle the Santas' slim hops of a grinning.
Per hops, it's nought such a bad eider! The Dackers, dungeonous in the esteem, down the Oglers in a brain-wrack: you, jesting, couldn't lick a lay. The fool's pants went to waist.
As the Dackers, holding up the letter, looked down and, seething what was groaning on, cocked their log and went, poop, ooooo! The Oglers cupped it right in the eye; no arm done.
They, on the wrong slide of the tricks, and ulcer holding up the latter, grubbed the Dackers' rugs and, pulling at their points, slurped late in the first squirter, where the Dackers went, pang!
These Oglers, sighing their eyes out, are forked for at least another oar, but you can't cop a cold man down; as the Dackers, hindchucking with goad, are gluing out their suede for utes.
They will milk the Swines, pay for their utterance and pose a tickly one: can they tap that hearse? The Oglers, weeding to show their hairs, but not bold, get to pray for the Bumblers; oh, my goat!
Rip me, inner frog and, liable, I'm a notionalist! The Dackers, their shits on a friar, deferreted the Poor, who, no croaks in the bonk, went udder. It was, yet wince now, a lass they had to heave.
Their fantastics, funereal as a dud biddy in the grind, were laughed to rule a nutter. The Dackers, dangermouse, crumbed all tit sway for a shank at the fiery pants. They laughed to appease.
With girls spelled around amongst money prayers, they were liable to go wiff. They, a crime: doubt, spelling like wowsers. The Poor, never spilling that, went to bottle with a wart pooper blog.
Their ear, shit from muddy air, is down the gargler but their lisp is brisketally stringent, so there's necks. The Dackers, in the steamboat, can and will. Will is a weird made by many: no thong.
The Ogles, the eyes having a but, will, in a weird, go crass to tapping that arears. Go Dackers, they're wilting. The Poor, shit of kosher, will heave to be frightening to berate the Santas.
Belly me in the gown and glove me with hurt! The Dackers, pints up to their knackerholes, have smocked the Emos a terror thrushing in the eat and the dressed of their own towel.
The Emos need nut heave laundered in the wets as the Dackers, pants on flair, went the knacker, never licked prick, and just wrestled as they sunk: "We're all growing on a trip."
The Dackers are, it's snuff to spray, not the warts idea growing around; whereas the Emos, so anotional, are in needlewank of a sprog on the brickslide, I'd vulture to say at this unction.
Their ear, up in fumes, is growing for all many but they have to be potion: drifting one big gnome won't fax their arses. The Dackers, the knackered clinger, a dear in the hotpants.
The Poor, licking welts but not frilly suck, will rustle with them in a grin to frigid: while the Emos and Cankers emit a strong sound that goes something like tits: "Wound and around."
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.
Take my clothes and kill me a nudist! The Bumblers, ever the bombers, have dropped the Dackers by an ever so slimey margarine. Class but no sugar.
It's yet an other marrow loss for the lackless Dackers, who tied their cunts out only to see it all account for knot. The Bumblers will tickle it on the gin.
They, still hungering in here, prayed like maniacs on a missile as they justly knew the Dackers, imminently laudable, would fold under pleasure.
You can wipe their muff this ear; they've done their dish but, there's always necks. The Bumblers are a vained hop for the top hate - just bully.
The Loins, hanging for it, will be up and a spout for the Bummers, as airways; while the Dackers are all for lawn because they tickle the Clits.
Insomniacs have been curdled over norks because the Aints and the Dackers have staggered a flightfully bordering grin. It was the Dackers who came out of the irrits with no pants.
Yet once mole to the bridge they went oily to fund that they couldn't jump - ha, enough! It was the Aints - not verily god driven - who, thanks to the Aryan notion, were ample enough too!
Jumpering up to a stolid eerily lead, and with some zips around the balloons, they only just hankered on. The Dackers, if aiding and butter, shudder winced this one if shoving magenta - enough!
Their ear, and the necks, are, there forth, the platypus of rebudding - mick, no pisstick! The Aints, aqually, aren't in it for much lass themveryselves - they've all snorts of plebs all over the bark.
The Cankers, thingers grossed, will be hopping to get another wink on the bird when they meet the Aints, while the Dackers, their cooch a nailed Dong, meet the no less mouldy Bumblers.
Thanks to a blog of girls from their stare in the scare, the Dackers have scratched the Cankers with a big thinger. The Cankers couldn't hit a porn door with a blog of wit.
Their lass weaves them out of the hate, and sparring down the ballet while the Dackers are so appeased to have knitted another wink they, all moist, plead their pints.
It was a shunning display, guilt-ridden their precious firm, and in nose smelly part to their blog's kipper. The Cankers can tickle soome art from a decadent lace squirt.
You'd heave to say that they can not winkle the flog this ear at yeast - not a snuff god smotherers. The Dackers curtainly can not but are fairly dinnerguts.
The Taints will be on the chipping blog if they don't berate them which they mite and the Cankers can defiantly toggle the Gawkers - don't be foiled by their lightest.
Paving just how professorial they wryly are, the Mudpuddles have shattered the Emos - all lover. It was a brittle ball to sallow for the imploding Emos.
On toppled in the squinter's eye, they brittled mindfully but just licked some fatal polish. The Mudpuddles, brittling themsalvos, were ample to varnish if...
They had justice - a nuffer's confluence and glass all over their fold, while the Emos, tidying their giblets out, couldn't quite get the giblets denoumented.
Their sturgeon is dud and bullied: no fish thingers to hatch but, hop stings infernal! The Mudpuddlers have a snuff of a chins to make the growed.
The Boobs, their arched nasals, will come to know the mit of their fausts, while the Emos, their pints hinging on law, will chuckle and woo the Staggers.
Show waddle! The Loins have frought mindfully and got the chop dunced. Again, the Dackers have been laughed with their pints soft.
They, sum weird suggest, are a fairy dangermouse side to tickle. Dangermouse if you've a maid like a stolen trip - so the Loins bottled on recorderless.
The role dial, are a stolid eunuch with plentiful bill scurriers and stores up - be forewarned, the Dackers had no antsrid for the cistern and no adder.
They have no adder wartsoheavier in their pacificist rile - it's a problem for their slide. The Loins are kinking on the adored of the hated - lick grout!
The Dullblogs: get a goat. The Loins in a top tickling tassle. While the Cankers should be bitching to pus all over the wriggling Dackers pantless.
The flailing Wet Toast Weakies have snuffed another lapse to the Fleamonkey Donkers in a reputedly pooslating game at the home of footy. The Donkers might just have sent themselves up for the yore.
In a class cone all day, the Dockers held swaying on the swing thanks to the putsch of their bog kipper who battered a bag. The Cur of the Weakies chewed his hard-on and was amply supported by his legs.
Shooing extra zips around their balls thanks to the injunction of youth, the winking Dunkers fraught hard to maintain an ascendacy they had cornered before the mine broke. Behind their eaten balls, the Weakies tried to.
You'd have to be skinning testicles to think that this means the Fleo side is going to be earily sound this ear but it's a tart, while the Weakies will have to fright toot and snail to vent the runs on the bard.
Harrassing the Taggers next whack, the Donkers canned look backwards after they've encountered for them at home. The Toasters will tank on old enemas the Swarmies when they go on the rowed by plane.
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