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.
Piddle me on the bullocks and scream, "You lick that, don't you?". The Clits, so willed and so what, have given it to the Cowerers by a whipping bench of pints.
They were outglossed from the artset as they fimbled about for their pins in the dork. AS they dud, the Clits just went: "Give me the pill, I want to fork you!"
You know how it grows when the Clits are up and a spit - nobirdy can lay a hound on them. The Cowerers, no pants in the front, were cleft with their chins.
They lick the crass to munch slides like the Clits, very phew though there rare, and will be abound the muck as the Clits go: "Give me that cup, I'm coming."
The Dackers, up for a bit but wryly falling shorts, will have a toff time of knickering the muff; while the Cows will, methane, snuggle to put the pants on: Mudpuddlers.
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.
Snack me on the plum and call me bat-cheeks! The Emos, stuffier than a worse dunny, have deflated the Loins (scratchy as piggery and flat as a tick).
They went, on the rued, just wide-eyed, to munch on their big custards in the scrape, while the Emos, prying like a time, went winking awry to a wink.
It was, oily, their sconed wink for the ear, unbelievably; while the lass for the Loins is just what others needled bodily. They, Ma, true, lassoo bad.
They're hungering in the hate but, shrill, not throaten the top, for they're not weaving; while the Emos, shot, lick a dread. Ick! Fool's hop is all fawn, ow!
The Dullblogs will, in my handball op, give them a snack! And the Loins will, I sourly hop with all my art, hand the Dongs they're gnats on a bladder. Hop.
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.
Suck tin! The Santas have grimed up the latter. Wiff a persisting grub for four pints. The Cankers wear their bleating rectums: beaten pantless.
Absinthe was the flamed shineyboner spit. Also messing was a ticket in the attic. The Santas wanked themselves into the grind for the wink.
The man in the pox, mist, take credit for the whinge and lickwarts the lass. It wars grin and wan in the arts and muds of the maniacs shitting up tip.
The Cankers, moor then smooch, need a wrist to make some swishes, both plastic and mirror. The Santas have shown the pouters up. Ahaha!
They, after a brickette, melt the Bloopbloggers in a snoozing dephoning grin, while the Cankers, moist as, always plead the illing Poor. Harpfully.
Jesus whipped! The Blowbloggers have stooged a shunning lassed-squirter to errand the Togglers picking. They're nope (applying the brine grime).
Shit down, they're abolute coy, went toff! That, sum tolled, is the rail arson... nought! The Blipglibbers had they're masseur and just went ribbing!
It was. They're overalls: clinging and wankmingelike, that graved them the nudge over the Togglers - licking for laugh in all the wrangled polices.
For the ear, they pee. Hanging in they're for a shit at that crumpeted monthly sport, while the Blogbloopers can, oily, get butter for they're Jungian!
The Aints, not arse, slim would heave you bereave are to meet them in a reaper, while the Togglers toggle the Oglers over and under, where?
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.
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