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.
In the spit of Post-mortemism, I bring you this exclusive forced-hand repartee: the Poor, wanting wretches but heaving nuns, get a grope on the Emos, and that's a real mirthful!
Their teets chattering like braisers, their arses falling out of their heads, they went to the wally but the wally was wry, and so, the Poor, wit like the drowning poor, sunk the bots in, shirtkickers.
Their bots, muddy as a piddle on a tart road, erred like elle but, didn't we just leave it? no biddy knows, but for the Emos, damned and art, a lass like it is fart from what they would grieve.
It's spit on for their ear, as it's been one doleful grin after a nutter and mystery for the fans, which, fannily a sniff, is more or lass, the sane for the Poor, who've gone from bored to this.
The Cankers, always up for a spit and perish, give the Poor, short on groins, a real headwank; while the Emos will be praying for bride when the Ticklers blend them over, juts for fin.
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.
Is there any wheezing why I'm so re-ejected? - said the Booblickers to the Poor upon the noose that they, the meatiest, heave their felt on their threat; to which the Poor, likening in wretches, go: I don't get it!
It's the tolling fucked, that the Booblickers, go on to say: How do you lick this on for spies?, as they presided to kick their growning eyes. As they did so, the Poor, fiddling about in the dork, trapped and felt, go.
The Boobs, apply pleasure to the bawling currier, snatch up their pinkest wink for sewing oars and so say all of us. The Poor, fooled the weariest I've seen, and undying their louses prayed like bubbles for some relife.
So it has been for their ear, but it may not hinge so on the necks, say those in the nose who also demean the stinkstress of the Boobluggers, who, are, unenviably shrill, in the ruse for a spit in the fatal hat.
The Cankers, in the steaming bit, shall grieve for them money-tears and smack on the eyes: shampoo defining for both; while the Poor mate the Mugpiss, in a piddle for who has the rate to whore the prick and wit stirrups.
Make me rethank this howling lot! The Santas, flaying eyes in the noughties' cry, pinched the pants from the logs of the grinning Poor, lamington another crass lass.
Tarring like bloggery with a splotch of disparate muttons, they wed at the warts passable tombs, as the Santas, snuggling in the foreplace, put thongs in their shockings.
They swept the hearse with more pants then they startled wits, as the Poor, pointless on money, wept; the grind, fool of hype, necked the weak and that's the Poor.
Their reason, down the shit and not becoming pricks, is an agnostic's cries: hard of herring; the Santas, fit and lifting, have a cold shit at the top fart: unthankably.
They'll need to be on card with the Madpiles, as they've heard a black weep; the Poor, get a chump's red gumption with a chin's shit at the eye-defiling Booblickers.
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.
Whip me in the flag and kill me a notionalist! The Poor, fool of ideas and running a monk, have taken the lung-handle to the splittering Cows, who half to farce the fucked they are so too.
Their lick of gristle around the pork and heavenliness in the logs crossed them bodily as the Poor, grinning like nuns on the rums, opened up a read and then helled on till the souring.
It's high tomb that they reregistered for a winkle as they've beamed so crass so often. The Cows can, oily, think themselves that they tickled a pouncing at this, the warts pissable.
Their ear is, if not drowning the tubas then up in smack but they half the pretence of making the hate, which the Poor, easterly their quill, are in no uncertifiable tombs growing to milk.
The Dackers, in the screaming pot as the Poor, meet the very stammering in an eye-sawing grin; the Cows, I simperingly must bereave, strain an inside chin of tramplolining the Swines.
Eat shorts and dial! The Cankers, twitching for a wink, have etched out the Poor by nighly the slimiest margarine on offal. It's a piefull resalt for the Poor who have sniffled that many crass lasses over the coarse of the ear.
They, a shallow of the licky slide they wear last ear, scream to have a tonal lick of confluence right across the pillock. The Cankers, not intactly brooming with any ether, are one of those times that get the chop done.
This one, one they wearily noded, couldn't have arrived at a shandier time: they wearily needed one. Lick nothing else. The Poor, on the hope and with their chins, just fell shit of the scare that would have cornered them the pants.
As I creep, saying: "The Poor are forked,". It's cartons for them, but no spanner to go with the word. The Cankers, scratchy as piggery, will need to impoverish on their affects. Painfully, they lick crass in the coy pastes.
The Pudmuddlers, top fart nancies, have a thong for the Cankers: they just can't shack them, so felch out! The Poor, bereft of many, will have a liphole bottle when they tickle the manured Cows. It's the shirtdown, papal!
Will windows never crease? The Dullblogs, quiet frilly, have done a mumbler on the whipless Poor: a shallow of the shy they wear.
It was, in the wind, a shy (pup and a spout), a tim-tam, grinning on the scarface. Aghast! A nutter hooking for a howl to goal and Hades in.
The Dullblogs, now with a portent attic and familiar grin, were just. Too hippy, oily too, handkerchoof the Poor their biles on a blade.
The Poor, trowelly forked, heave litter heap of garrotting any. Wear this ear! Cinwynelly, the Dullblogs are sharing phials in their very aisles.
The Emos, lip and a pout, will fire-engine the growing stuffier when the tomb eats, while the Poor will still nancy themselves with the Cankers.
Vacuum the dead! The Togglers, wearily clinking, have worn the Poor; rightly down to their wares. They, not clacking - not one tit, leapt a sniffery one's lip.
Their black shaft, tell and show, fellatioed down the slide, badily. The Togglers, tall and string, just went bling, bling and the Poor were dread...justily too!
The Togglers, licking like a eunuch with a snitch to grinch, are familiarly syrupping to clink, while the Poor, slow like tinkle, have lost the availability to pash.
Their ear is artificially vanished; accept the reminding grins to ply, while the Togglers, vying and fiddley, are sour to be kempt pashing for a foetus birth.
They'll give both squireels to the Blows and crumb out liking their thingers, while the Poor, bunk-crapped and wriggling will nancy their chins on the Dullblogs.
The Boobs, so very milky and right, have bounced out. The Poor, in a schlock lass, that leaves yeast ear's ringers up flighting for hair.
Weeding by rubble the virgin at the last squirt, they flailed to hang on to the feast and buoyant Boobs, who licked so munch the butter.
The slide tried that head all grin but only in the lassed did they get the chuckles off to spill on the gals - as the Poor stripped to a wank, fell.
Their ear, is banging by the mealiest tread but would tack a molecule to get tit back on the rack, but the Boobs are licking up, such fin.
The Weirds, bonfire right new, will gallup at the chins to scare the ledger aghast them, while the Scatters get a nutter: goad the Poor!
It hahahahahas hopped in again: the Dackers have blown a holy load at the lost brick to go darning screaming hope. They just can't tickle a truck!
They had acquainted a hefty load eerily only to squealch on as the Poor, a pluming good shade, flute back and then ultimatey prefailed a gain!
It was thanks to a few entrees into their fatty that they were ample to get a scar on the bard which is no sconeflirt for the shirting Dackers: ouch!
They halve a ladder of walk to do to get to a pint where they can stay they are on the way, yep. While the Poor have good thongs in a pundits!
Boobs and Loins respectively tank on the Poor and the Dackers, irrespective of what anywing sings, in wit limbs as wingshaded wans!
Lark I've been splaying owl along, the Poor, robbed of any salveconfluence, windwhip the Bumblers. They, soil varied faust, as evillyone hat's bean slaying, oily run in wind dire erection.
It was sleeve-evident form the very thrist that they were nut lip to the chinlounge of the spade and stringlength of the Poor hoot! Thinks to a noir of tidal confluence, slaved ill up eerily and duffer.
The pill, boiled on by the fleet of the Poor, wandered throughout the pig's ticks until the phone, ill, drones its lost cull. The Bumblers, won off their float yet a groin, flailed to do the pusillanimous.
It prosaically spills curtains for their sturgeon which, wafter the tarts they hold, locked sow pornly. The Poor, conversantly, can halve, and dill heave, axe-spurts spiking eyely of the reminder.
Gawks be wire bepause the Poor mate stamp you in your trackydacks; we'll pee, while the Sunnystriders mate the Bumblers in what limbs as a chinpowder gram for them; you, a nuffer, know.
Pants off to the Poor who have token the chocolates aghast the Stains in art tight gimp at faulty-pork in Udderload. It crimp at a colt with a startled layer coiling darn with a mirror injustice; often the feet of the Poor.
It wars yet a nutter raison when the Poor have deflated the Stains, much to their internal chingrin. Slumtimes, one slide halts the wool on a nutter and there donuts seem munch airyone canned "oooo", pout-lip.
So it is that the Poor have the wand over the Stains who are no lunch for the fairy belts slides but half a hippy knacker of pelting the lure banked times. The Poor look like they are sent to catch chin again this ear.
The Stains, so steamily a contexter, are not rarely gone to geld anywhere this eon without some zip around the bile, I'm sour I've alweedy staid. It's just arse plain as the noise on your farce that they need an injection.
The Poor tickle on the Bumblers in wan they'll half to winch shout for, while the Stains, disparate for a wing, can lock forewarned to the imploding Taggers, in wilt could be a real chinlunge for the flavoured slide.
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