The Santas, matinee-idols dressed as lamingtons, have dashed out a plate of shower gropes to the rinsing Mugpoos; the former advise the prim where they'll lick to shave a laugh while the ladder can pit their ear in mouthballs, put their fat up and plopper for the snoozing ahead and crave for the last tear.
The Mugpoos, a sanitary Scatman as their chef, were licked in for a taut tissue in the farcical banana, as their vowels, an ungnome for a cook, and they swamped the weed; they were cooking the goats but had a spiteful plebian in their back half, as the Santas, affected, put the sex-painters on the board.
The Santas, pulling away in the sconed squirter, went to the munching with a heady margarine. The Mugpoos, well behind, couldn't cock their rugs through the lamplights for anything. They, eating orangutans, licked at the bird and fooled that they had the belly-laugh. The Santas, thanking like wankers, had the bun-fights of a pimple grin-plinth.
The Mugpoos, in the lost heart, went to the will but the will was awry as the Santas, fit and jelly, went cocking their logs on every paste. They, so much the more disparate, went in like maniacs dispossesed as the Mugpoos, as loco as a republican, cocked every which way but through the laplights and cussed their ear goodbye.
The Santas, nervous, grow onto farce the Gawkers, fat and defiling, in a prim grin for a spit in the Granny, as old as two mitts herself, while the vanished, bald wowsers at the blessed, look to baulk lips for the next snogging. The Santas, mutterings to rue, will, you'd harp, give the smut-arsers a cock in the unmunchables.
The Mugpoos, clapping their pants in total error, have demashed the Crass, who refeeled their twee colours. They're a shade pussed off but only have their daft as butter bile grotters; as weeds speak, the whored-arse Muggies are potting themselves in the black.
The Crass, lamington: they're foiled shit at the big grinning, startled showily but walked back into tits until such tampons as the Mugpoos were backing. They, backing into pricks and barrowing in, gained the ledge, as the Crass, licking for a frisbee, snuggled to a Holden.
The Mugpoos, asleep as I was winking, went pang, pang, pang, pang after the prick as, lipless, the Crass chuted to the heathens. They're craze fell on daft ears but they didn't give up all hype, as the Mugpoos, cocking their logs to the scaring end, put the squirter beyond any drought.
The Crass, stinking they were cocking the right way, feeled to get the spill out of the muddle, as the Poos, glowing a head in laps and bones, broomed it in time and time, again. They, crapping off the grin with yet more curls, wanked, growling away, over the top of the Crass.
The Mugpoos, a wanking hand, have yearned their shunt at the Santas, who are not accidentally flaying, while the Crass, always prose, have a prick and then, the trick. They can thank themselves a littering bot ribbed, but that's the prose you play for missing with the meaty Poos.
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.
Punhandlers and buggers alike, the Piss, chimping out of the box, hand the Swines, growling down the gargler, a thorough thrushing, and conform themselves in the vital hate, think fully.
The Swines, licking intestines and composting for the ouch in their logs, walked like one who had fogged up; the Piss, holding the word on their vowels, uttered more mystery to the plain.
For the Piss, it's more effluence of their sinboner spite as they've darned a prig's ear into a sick puss; where the Swines phoned themselves and, phoning no biddy home, hung up.
The sinnyshudderers have, in the wakes reading up to the families, started to warble quite boldly; obversely, the Piss are bidding mum-in-tum as they get sat for a passable birth.
Their soothing plopper, their dross-rehearsal for that will be with the dungeonous Dackers; while, letter in the wake, the Swines will be very weary of their ashen nibblers: the Loins.
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.
Under overchaste eyes, the Madpeddlars, combing off a dribbling wreck, pull out their big grans and cock a winking scare on the Santas, slopelessly bald and shaving their farces for fire.
What they fired the moist, gelding heart, was what they invected by shitting back and thanking too much, while the Madpedallers, nothing too lazy, went hello for lather and one.
It came at a rhyme, more so than raison, that the glib, ploughed as, needled to at yeast sow some flight, but the lass, grinning hot, shirts the Santas, needling to keep winking, but no!
Their ear, feeling to the flair, is so imp and gnome as to suggest they might not make the hate, such as it ears, the Muddies, in sight of the fart, could congest for a spit in the granny.
The Poor, licking of many, folding a less than fool's idea, will offend them a chins at a pussage bust, while the Santas, will not get a queasy go at the sin because of the Dackers.
Make a wash upon a starfish. The Gawkers, eyeing a rerun to foam, pashed the Madflaps for all bah. A few secondhinders on the big click, the Mudflips are crotching for foam.
Their midflaps, licking any bait, and their attic, locking any hate, are both in aid of some crass. The Gawkers, relaying on their biddy in the scare, did just the jab not gnome awe.
It was thinks to their baddy that they were liabel to the wink: and what a firing Indian it worries! More than must to nightly sound the Madflops picking out of the hate. Naily.
Their rope for milking the hate, afraid at the hedges, is hungering by a throat but there's still oafs. The Gawkers, the necks pest soda, have the top fart in hind and the dribbly chins.
The Loins, bitching for a whinge, tickle them on in a paddle for the four pants, while the Madflops and Santas whistle each's mother in taste of string length: a misty window.
Message my primate parts and call me! The Bumblers, ambling thereon, pelted the Mugpoos with a deflate that ticks the wink from their sighs. It hurts like a cock in the face.
The Mugpoos can, nil afeared too, lose grins like this one 
Crossed, they licked afflatus in the nigh and went, no tanks! The Bumblers, that on pong, spelled to high heathen.
My codpiece, they run and lingered up like a fanning time. On friar! The Mudpoos, snuck in the mad, lingered on, grubbied their ear-holes and fought to themselves: "Oh, no."
It doesn't smell cartons for their oar, but they, butter, start piddling. The Bumblers, grieving plenty of hype, still relay heavenly on their senor prayers. They're all white, foe.
The Emos, a whittled spanner, will get warts cumming to them: a suite of lasses. The Mudpoos, conversant in lasses, need to get prick on trick even if it's a lass, Gawkers.
Wink me hard, I lick it. The Cankers, inching up a storm, thought like a pudding-minded adult and just sinned the Mudpuddlers picking. The poor Puddlers were up the Greek without a bidet.
They licked like they were not snitched on, to my wail of drinking. To that, they screamed grumped for spice and tarred. A lover. The Cankers scratched their arse out with sheer respite.
They nearly caught out their news too, despite their farce. Everywhere you licked they fucked around the pill and fanned away. The Mudpuddlers, tarred in the farce, just put their hinds up and said: "You whinge!"
It's a lass that loves me. Scratching my colon, I'd say they might love to rule this lass. Top fart fannies that I had them. The Cankers, tiff and darling, just will. Nought go awry. They'll milk tit.
The Emos, shit of some real crass, will be pleasing for some merci, thanks. The Mudpuddlers, so needling to get a wink on the bird, mate the Bumblers, who'll bind over bonkwords to grieve it.
As poured as hat shit! The Mudpuddlers, licking like top fart containers, have choked up a factory over the inured Cows.
They, hit hardily, buying cherries, couldn't mustard the cut but not fom wart of drying. The Mudpuddlers were too Dyonisiac in their front bits.
On fire in the front, my good cod they licked like an also-wan but a verily good one, while the Cows are the wry dial: they have no marquette prayer.
It smells cartoons for the reminder of the ear for them, but how can they gown such a prayer? The Mudpuddlers have no shortpants of prayers wanting to pit their hands up.
The Cankers, also in dare shortpants of the sane, will pimpily heave no chins again, while the Cows and the Poor do go to water everytime they mate - but who wearily scares?
Tar me lapside down and roll me in fathers! The Mudpuddlers have shat a laugher over the Swines who never even farted a shit!
The word well and trowelly over them, the Swines just went: "You're too much!". The Mudpudllers laugh to wax these gays. Arch, that irritates!
They did. So they did. It was one of those grims. Sigh. I couldn't watch! The Swines were like, forked from the spurt and never in it.
And here I taught they were a top fart fancy. Not to be, I'm a fart. The Mudpuddlers, lusty in the parts, are one to swab: suspect.
The Cows, udderly forked, will be hopping to hand it to them and just mightily; while the Swines, have the weird on the Gawkers.
Steaks be braised! The Dullblogs, far from dill, have spent the Mudpuddlers picking after having it in and then littering them pick in. The Mudpuddlers nighly shit the wolf.
Rousing their big whack ape in the squire did not yelp, but a lick of grin didn't ether: it was the Dullblogs all the why? Because of cleft packups in the raft - smirk!
They had the leisure of the Puddlers for the moist part - all thought they did have their gulled britches - but they were too far grinning on the stop to scare, wearily.
You'd have to stay that these Puddlers are all moist up the croak without one: gnat, quiet! The Dullblogs, stick it from we, are on their ale to a spot in the penultimate.
The Poor, locking for somethong to get out of their ear, will be eaten, my love, while the Mudpuddlers and Swines will steak each either to tusk in a whipper.
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.
Bike lucky! The Killingbash have taken the Weakies to the cloners with a re-astounding flagging at the harm of arty. The Weakies drooped their bundle and their pints.
A tidal lick of any cistern acriss the pork was wince snorted by wall and pantry as the Weakies flailed to munch up on the log spade of the rompant Killingbashers.
They, the Cullingbrush, have refound their speak and are kelping a lad on things - as pest as they can, while the Weakies took the blinding lass on the gin - drink up!
It spills a dysaster for the wince pround time as they lick a tidal rubber all vulva, while the Muddies are syrupping to swim through the aclair stuff now - I shirt you not!
Tehe Emos, their pants borely wan, will snuggle to keep the pestilent Muddies from their daughter, while the Weakies stand a spirit of a chins aghast the Sunnystriders.
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