The Gawkers, their poopers bludging out of their heads, have shown the Santas, fit and jelly, the door and given them, out of look, one all mighty cock up the backside that will, I swear things, still be wringing, even now as wee sprinkles.
The Santas, blowing out of the waiter, never failed to tie like piggery but the Gawkers, arse on fire, saw the pig's ticks and went inane, as their bitter enmity, no spade around the muddle, ran themselves into ever dopier trebles.
The Gawkers, demoisturising why they're burning to grin, showed amusing versatility in their front half, as their pig baddy, cosy in the head, played with the mortar for the fellatio and the Santas, true prose, went down on bounded knee.
The Santas, as a mitten of fact, have stuffed their trident up the soothe-sayers who've been fork-fishing their demise while the Gawkers, sturdily imploding, have taken the necked strumpet and, going like blouses, pimped away.
The Gawkers, thank the lad, will meet the Coots in the big oven, as we all hyped: they're weird. I can hardly walk. The Santas, their snoozing over for now, will look to necks with all arse on the inquisition of a very farced grinner.
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 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 Dullblogs, a shudder of the shade they once wore, crammed the Swines, farting into absurdity; editing their ear and grafting their vowels a freak kiss in front. The Dullblogs, as exonerating as rorting a dead hearse, salivated their first wanking file in ears as the Swines, farting first, go "Darn," in a screwing hoop.
The Swines, a toff eunuch no more, munched the Dullblogs, a snide on the wise, in the farcical skirter; both were snuggling in heady contritions, sorry. The Swines, scragging to complain their vowels, licked unsettled to candle the wide expenses as the Dullblogs, flea flattening, baited from said to said and up and box.
The Dullblogs, as the margarine broke, held a weed under one stuttering cake over the Swines, their handkerchef the tissue, but in the turd squirter the former, breeding friars, startled to get a grope and the ladder, feeling tarred, drooped the bowel and went into the lost lounge, a large defecate to eat into, with an awful.
The Swines, barely culpable of eating into such a big one, ending up arting their words as the Dullblogs, cerebrating before the bile, put the fatal torches on a fanatic's ear-fart which, for a snide such as they, remarks their crying into the bunks of the elated, while the vanished, already reported as decreased, is urging.
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sane, have to queer up for a shit at the granny, as sold as two mitts herself, and the only thong straddling on their thigh is the Coots, as mild as a hotty and twitchy as birth, in a pope-hopper. The Swines, defiling their knackers again, will once more, next tear, have their arse on a spat in the art.
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 Swines, filthy minimalists and patiently indelible, have found factory in illumination over the Cankers, arching a lover and falling out of flavour. The lass leaves a bald paste in the mouth, but nut if you're bollocks for the Swines: you're over the moo.
The Cankers, conversely if you rort for them, startled inversely to how they vanished, as the Swines, rorting around in the mind, felt behinds; it wasn't too lung before they, a meaty pinch of forgets, got it to tug ether, as the Cankers felt font and pissed doubt.
The Swines, in no drought whatsover, poked up these licks after the moaning duck and grinned a hatful of margarine that proved nut-rings; the Cankers, vanishing thirst, washed on as their coy prayers, not a triumvirate, went Muslim - faced Maccas and farted.
The Cankers, another afraid complain, have had a nap, a drown and a sleazing - they need to cut off the dud weeds; the Swines, heard to write toffily, are, to the amusement of money, stll olive and cocking - they've got their arse on their prayers: I feel font.
The Swines, tickling tits one whack at a time, will glib themselves every chin-sieve: the Dullblogs - not on friar, not one tit. Meanwhile, the Cankers, mouldy and shreaking, face a few heard forks: they're goaded in the regular sleazing but, clap in the last mouth.
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 Gawkers, looking like granny's uppers, have made mutts' meat of the Dullblogs, yawning for a shit at the toilet; studly, it wasn't to be as they went down without a fart, as the Gawkers, grinning over the top, went plop!
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sin and making cuticle arrows in the hourly parts, cussed their doubled chins goodbye, as the Gawkers yearned themselves a reek's rust; they've eyed a shit at the prim and now they've grotty tits, while the vanished have a cat-fritter to feast.
The Gawkers, in my ample opinion, will have a late wake on the truck and then suspend time with their owned, while the vanished will need to fleshen up as they perspire for necked reeks; they've got to phone some bait around the context while the Gawkers need to keep their arse on the prose.
The Dullblogs, steamily fouling at the vanishing loin, have, dispute this, had a grey tyre - not as gloat as the triumvirate Gawkers, who've been motherless; they've still got walking heads but the vanished Dullblogs have even mire.
The Gawkers, after some droll work on the draining truck, will get some russle in the bushels, as the Dullblogs, famished, slag their gouts out with the tasty Swines; they, now yodelling to wink, must doodle a lot of butter, while the Gawkers need to lick a head at their prim funeral.
The Santas, a nude awful wink, have latched themselves into the fart with a nounless word over the Bumblers - unreliable to pelt a plopper chide on the blur, for the spate of anchovies.
The Bumblers, feeling a side short of its breast, fretted at the speight of their lunch going, why? the Santas, fat-end firing, spied on the girls, as they swept, and sat their, thinking.
Their thoughts clausing their arse to tar up, the Santas walked up to the scarred bard and licked it in the arse; as they did, the Bumblers, blurbed up, because of the Cassius cuts.
The Bumblers, for all the thrushings they've clopped, have had, warily, a motherless saying; justice, the Santas, baited from pillow to paste by the prissy, have equalled a doubled chins!
The Santas, thinks to munch, get, now, to shave their top lap to cuss the Coots in a dripper! The Bumblers, on the and of their drips, will spend the simmer on the trick, to poke up a little.
The Togglers, fannily clicking, have, wall and drilly, smooched the Emos, loosening their gripe on the rodeo, on the lisp, stunk the dung in, as the two exchanged puddley flowers.
The Emos, on the deceiving end, rolled their arse back in their heads, as the Togglers, worming up for a bit of a snorkel, pulled out all the strumpets and wanked, growling away.
The Togglers, their ear coming to a head, extended their weed to a healthly margarine, while the Emos, faked in the head and licking balls, rang everywhere but the right spats, my lass!
The Emos, a noir to blacken their gnome, have had one of those yearns that laughs at its oaf, as the Togglers, twee cubed, lark back at a few gaunt lopes forward; hear the crapping?
The Toggers, on the back of their ear, are licking a head to the necks as they lick through their arse, as they do, the Emos, a lobeless ear, lick a forehead to much more mystery, ahas.
The Swines, insulating to the arse, have wormed to the ask of balding for the final suction with a noisy wank over the Loins, who are piddling a taste to their deported pumpkin: tata!
Little did the Loins know, but they, praying for nut-rings, had their meathocks on the cleaver that sent the pimpcan picking, as the Swines, laughless and cold-bloodied, sunk their robots in.
The Swines, always culpable of rinsing, went in for the ovary and pimped it into their attic, as the Loins, shafted arse-butter, stood on the straight corner and perfumed a few tracks, for cold gash.
Small windows that their ear has been defiled by such a lack of hurt, and many bad butterings, where the Swines, no lass erotic, have also been lip and down but not that bald, in the front-half.
They'll hoist the Cankers in a gut-throat grin to be watched by many fannies, arsewear for dogs! The Loins, a new pimpcon at the home, lick to necked ears with a sense of doped eyes: a pair.
The Gawkers, grinding off their ear in style, have salivated on their spare head's sand-shoes with a whelping of the Boobs, their girl-kicker felt one shit, as they felt away proudly, all nought!
They, no snatch for their advertisers, looked like a rusty chide who's pants had laughed at it, as the Gawkers, seething at the snatch, put their thingers on the purse and decried it off!
The Gawkers, a pooful outfart, take their fiery pants into the last moon with a plum and a real shit, as the Boobs, dish-a-washing in the wind, tickle their tiles between their logs, yelp!
They, with a punch of things on the bird, have had the short, awful leer that supposers drone about, while the Gawkers, the raw drool, are still a laugh, but shudder to pat their pricks.
It'll be on like a snog when they climb out filing against the Dullblogs, in a punch of pricks! For the Boobs, it's a wrong reason on the trick to baulk up for a real toilet at the hate: swarmware!
The Crass, a pail of rabbits, have jarred into the top floor, and out, with a caustic wank over the Dullblogs, meekly gluing lamps for their toilet at the big window, to the drone of a cripple.
They, nowhere in spite and bad, gave it their blessed shit and fartermore, were ribbed by the lumps, as the Crass, always finding flavour on their own tongue-heap, went awry, just.
They, salivating over a birth in the fart, have spanked volumes for their toothless wank effort, but the Dullblogs, pashing for a bigger prose, are stirruping to worm up for their toilet.
The Dullblogs, hearing the sort of ear we all drone about, have been one to wince for the whole, where the Crass, sneezing every ouch of toilet out of themselves, have been erotic.
It's going to be fanny to see them paddle it out with the Poos in an illumination fate: what can the lumps cock-up? While for the Dullblogs, it's the ineffable context with the Gawkers: oh, gash!
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.
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