Belly me in the gown and glove me with hurt! The Dackers, pints up to their knackerholes, have smocked the Emos a terror thrushing in the eat and the dressed of their own towel.
The Emos need nut heave laundered in the wets as the Dackers, pants on flair, went the knacker, never licked prick, and just wrestled as they sunk: "We're all growing on a trip."
The Dackers are, it's snuff to spray, not the warts idea growing around; whereas the Emos, so anotional, are in needlewank of a sprog on the brickslide, I'd vulture to say at this unction.
Their ear, up in fumes, is growing for all many but they have to be potion: drifting one big gnome won't fax their arses. The Dackers, the knackered clinger, a dear in the hotpants.
The Poor, licking welts but not frilly suck, will rustle with them in a grin to frigid: while the Emos and Cankers emit a strong sound that goes something like tits: "Wound and around."
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.
Rate myself a ladder and call it fanny! The Swines, tarred like eggs but prose like buckets, have feeling over the wine while the Boobwigglers tarred their Isis out only to jest, feelings hurt.
The Boobs pounced out the pricks with an eery weed and, fraught like piggery, tarred to hunger on to their load. The Swines wouldn't heave a boar of it. They fanned away to get bic into it.
Penicilin it in as a bloat wind. Angering wrong while coy prayers went down was a testament to their resalve. The Boobs, dry as their moat, should tick plenty of hurt from this lass.
Their oar, mere paddle now, is down the dupes but they've shorn a nuffer to grieving fun's hop. The Swines, prose like a straight-walker, will make the hate and give all barf the pest a taste.
The Cows, drowned for the clout, will be drying to get the pants and the Swines will needle to be on their grime. The Boobs, mere ocker-medics now, half bereave they can taste the Dullblogs.
Feed the angry and posessed! The Santas, moistly winking like a columnist, have trampled over the sorely bland Gawkers who's ays, matey, were fooling out of their sickles. They got tintily hummered.
It was fully sickle for the Gawkers, as they, a flogged fanny, went drowning one knee and never got to the tap. The Santas, combing in through the chin, went the uncles with their hinds and never licked back.
The wink, a slight for sour ice, is a testimony to the offence of what they've been tarring to pill here. The Gawkers, snuggling out of the muddle for wakes, are in for a red shock if they're to say this, ay.
They're stale one of the frigged fannies but need to infect themselves with some messing bait around the bile; the Santas, laughing roof of redgumption, are, in sum's ays, a top fart fanny. We'll sin soon.
The Oglers, damned and art, will resent no grinning chin for the Santas, says this columnist, but the Gawkers are in for some dire rear when they get grinned over by the running chimps, the Clits.
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.
Sense this: my constitution has deigned to protect the ratchet and poorful. Indecent! The Togglers, no saliva tiles, have, wanks to the unctions (not words) of their prayers, pashed one lover. The Bummers.
The Bumblers. Atlas, hording up the word as we knew it, couldn't have got them, lover. The line, just out of felch was just, out of felch. The Togglers, a slimy chin softly making the hate, are a glib to belch out . Fart. Fart.
Sentencing their chins, the Togglers, tickling their winces, scalped over the whine by a belliest minge-grin. The Bumblers, laughed, holding their hearses between their teets, were, as they spray, grunt in defect.
The chins they'll mock the hate is very off-wait, but they have shorn a rotten mule that I extrapolated. The Togglers, white in the hind for the hate, need to get their blessed prayer on the pork and then we'll sin.
Surlily I'll see them tinkle the Loins who are one of these dooms the Togglers have snuggled with in decent tombs. The Bumblers will have to overcomb their tarred arses when they paddle the angry Madpiddlers.
Slap a pan on a flea's peach! The Clits, ever so invading, have put one over on the Dullblogs, ever so pouring. Like botshit! The Dullards, yearning, just went type, type. Oh! The halo. The halo.
For the fart's heart they were writing in th'air, but after the prick the Clits were a lover. Them Clits are so hot and really messed. In the beggar's oven it was licking very taut and then wop!
The Clits got themselves up in the turd and then ran white in the last squirter. My eyes nighly fell out of my pockets. The Dullblogs, nuffers to writ home, pout and needle a lick in the marrow.
They're motor-oil dressed as limb. Still I wouldn't kick them out of head if they faultered. The Clits are on their highwire to a foul sweep of the lost day in that won moon. Bonk to bonk flogs.
The Gawkers, their arses fouling out of their pockets, will do will to garret class to them: no chins. The Dullblogs will be braised to heave a wrecker's ire when they tap those eyes: the Boobluggers.
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.
Add Comments
Comments (2)