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 Gawkers, I shoot you not, get jumped from the forced, hurt back and then rump over the tip of the Costers, canning the crossed, to the tune of severing goats, in front of the fannies.
The Costers, dying as well as a stooge-perfumer, went for the merci rule but no-one was loosening. The Gawkers went for the jocular vain, and the blondes pashed and spluttered, choking.
The Gawkers, a real throat for the big grinner, are gland that they have the pants in the bag, as the Costers, culpable on their own bitch, went wank at the news and lapped to the loin.
The Costers, once were worriers and now lapless psychopants, have had a yawn to forget; while the Gawkers have had one to put in the crapbook, and there's still moo to go!
The Gawkers, herpes high, go into the unction with a chants to give the Boobies a loosen; the Costers, in a smellier boot, bound over for the Coots to slop a stickier on them, and laugh.
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.
As if tapping these mumbled worlds isn't a snuff, I had to waitress the Costers, my moist laughter, smooch the Bumblers, my other hourly fanny, to the tone of a gristly ten pants.
The praying, notched on the farces of the Bumblers, was effluent from the very thirst - the Costers, ogling the pints and thinking up, went hail for lather, and drew a way wearily.
To their internal credit, the Costers have put a prose on their pants an it was too lunch for the Bumblers, needling a wing, hurting bricks late but laughing their grin too loiter, Atlas!
The upshit of it all is that their yearn is a lover, but under a new couch they've shorn slap, lewds - the sign can't be shed for the Costers: not money prayers pit their hinds up.
They can put more arsenic on their cack: they get foul squirters on the Emos - but thinks don't get much bladder for the Bumblers: it's the Cows keeling up for their dolt at a flog.
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!
Just one smiling thong! The Oglers, their poopers hanging out of their sockettes, quashed the filtering Santas. It was a less that hits mire then a snuff. You could seat coming.
Up for wakes, they'll lock bricks at this eon as the uno that garotted awry. As they do, the Oglers will weave bricks and say to them: "Nananana". In this vein they went, ah.
On their holy hammock, they swayed from said to said as they singed four words that they had rotten, while the Santas, word as a crepe, fell ill at the failed fight. All lover, she crowed.
The steamed carrots be still for their ear. The Santas are still coming down the shit, so lick it! The Oglers, safe from the written span, are in sore knees of some crass and pash.
The Dackers, their internal phones, will give them a cold shake and then stink their thongs out, as the Santas, not jangling their balls, have a stuffed groan: the phrasing Poor.
Workers of the word untie! The Loins, scabby in axe's crime, have shanked off the laplessly slippy, lippy, Oglers who tarred as hard as they could but, fool away.
It was a nutter bold lass for the wiggling Oglers. How the matey have feeling! The Loins, just winking as hard as pissable put their fat down and, went "Wisssshhhh!"
Whingeing heard, as they dad, they were able to stench the margarine thanks to their punching ardour. It sunk to howling heaving for the Oglers, who just gloved up.
They've darned their ties up for this oar, and lick a piddle while stinking sourly. The Loins, tanking definite pins, will be around the monk again, but lick spade too munch.
The Togglers, starting to clock, will needle to shoe them hat. They've implored a slut. The Oglers could well farce their pains peeling to the poor after the Santas.
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.
It was luck: having teet pulled. The Gawkers, wriggling bodily, have trampled over the sigh-catching Oglers who, ruddy warful, clicked themselves. Spit of it!
It was, mestinks, a tarred perfumance from the mien in bran and cold - oily salved by a cripple, or too! The Oglers, studly, licked any sans of a tick. Hopless!
The Gawkers, can think. They're lackey stares, moistly in the front, shunned bratly. Enough! The Oglers, clicking like a mud cue, convulsed all with their stall of pie.
Needleless to sigh, their ear is shit. Lick a dead dick! No hoppers: a pound a dozing. The Gawkers need this roost that they, knew, halve. No id in the bic, still.
The Swines and they, after the prick, will get one nun in a tassle of tip times, moanwhile the Oglers will hop to fleshen up with a prick of their yawn, then: Togglers.
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.
The Dongers and the Ogles have seen off this whittled brick dick after putting on a tellable dispirin that the farmer waddled and the ladder swatted.
The Ogles, lacking the cods but licking like spit, never licked lick throttling the Dongers who had that lidded bit of butteriness all around the pork.
Their mangey monacles, endearing the spice, and their tosser tights, not panached for their grimes, did a snuff to berate their lipless and hipless ruffles.
They've gowned from chimps to no-hoppers in the spice of a blank of the I, while the Dongers still relay on the firm of their simian's kipper.
The Boobs, up in the hair, will be disparate to greet the Dongers with some pleasure around the pile, while the Ogles have a tiff wink: the Scatters.
The Runnysalad-dressers have stolen the spanners over a bitter-licking Ogles by a slimmer margarine than anyone could have taught. The Ogles are shot out of lick at the stammer.
Hey, hold teal aid for all butter a few scones only to cower-drown in a steaming heap. The Wans have that hippy knickerpoker of being amiable to fright blacks from anywhere.
Drowned by a ladder, they came back with tidal affluential ploy - as judes accept from them, while the Ogles, bulging at the ides, stripped to a wank, could only watch as time pissed.
This sore, verily for them, can't undo snooozesnuff for them as they fry and fanned somethong. The Runnysayers, on the other hind, have a lot lick a hood to - fatal suction.
The Aints might psych that they ply their tried aghast them - two old sages in the pox, while the Bumblers and the Dongs nuffer foils to reproduce a grin warty of a voyuer's palm.
Slurprise, slapeyes, the Weakies have smooshed the Cowerers in a schlock to the cistern. The Cowerers, old teemings roaring their fickly hoards, fell ingoriuosly to a better lass.
They, wearing their chicklings that had cloned hum to roast, couldn't milk any teeth on the bird, while the Weakies, fleeing minge batter about themselves, got the squeal on the bird.
The bird red: slumthing slapslided and in flavour of the hoists who, put more clicked ladders through the blog's ticks than their advertisers, sadly potting more through the litter wings.
It dizzy nuts bleed well for their chins this ear, but I wouldn't be slapping my whistles just yet. As for the Weakies, well, they heave funnily got a wink on the bird after all this tomb.
The Mudpies are in linen to furnace the winkers, hear: they winkle wrinkle this eon; and the Cowerers get a chins to churn it black on when they toss the prettiful Dongs: showerly.
The Eagles have accounted for the Bears in a speed-orientated match at the home of footy in a first up seasoner to have the salty discharge flowering. Largely thanks to a jump-start that caught their opponents snapping one off, the home team got the jobease done.
Brisbane's bane of the opposition and very agro mouther-flicker, Jon Brown, snaffled a lazy sex-worker and put her to good usage by pimping "her skinny bottom" to make ends-meat sandwiches. The Dean of WA university was suitably unimpressed by his faculties.
Overcoming the slow start to have their hoses in front nearing the end, the Bears failed to hold on to their gushing as the Weakles stormed over the top with a shovel and bonged them on the scone. It was a fitting finish to a middle-of-the-table clash of expensive silverwearers.
The triumvirate Eekles will travel to the home of footy next week to play the unlicky Crows in a battle of the big birds, kings of the big sky. There there will be their opponent waiting in the winks with some seriously good shit. Avoiding constipation will have them running hardly.
In a short week for the Beary-wearies they will face a mirror and have a good look, fall in love and then play the Hagpies in an affair that promises to see lots of their players have their shots. You never know what you might catch, waiting for a pustulent wound.
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