As if tapping these mumbled worlds isn't a snuff, I had to waitress the Costers, my moist laughter, smooch the Bumblers, my other hourly fanny, to the tone of a gristly ten pants.
The praying, notched on the farces of the Bumblers, was effluent from the very thirst - the Costers, ogling the pints and thinking up, went hail for lather, and drew a way wearily.
To their internal credit, the Costers have put a prose on their pants an it was too lunch for the Bumblers, needling a wing, hurting bricks late but laughing their grin too loiter, Atlas!
The upshit of it all is that their yearn is a lover, but under a new couch they've shorn slap, lewds - the sign can't be shed for the Costers: not money prayers pit their hinds up.
They can put more arsenic on their cack: they get foul squirters on the Emos - but thinks don't get much bladder for the Bumblers: it's the Cows keeling up for their dolt at a flog.
In front of their endearing fins, the Cows tonally wince when they see the Togglers, not clocking and hooplessly out of rhyme, as the points are pulled and eyes are waxed.
The points, once wading about so high, now keeping the uncles tasty, went the other way, as the Cows, pulling on a baklava, ribbed the muff - they wearily stunk it to get her.
She, the girls on the bird, is in the pooper, if you don't believe me - she for yourshelf - and what a lapsided affair it tarred out to be - the Togglers foiled to shank, let alone bonk.
It smells curtains for their slim dish at the hate, but all is not noosed - they have shorn a sheepload of curry - more so the Cows: inline skanking for a top fart spit, and mire?
Combing off a venerable deflate, the Bumblers, thin and thin abbotts, will grieve them a gold shank; as the Togglers, fisting a toff one, have no respit: it's the Gawkers, for moan.
Under the witchful eye of his mattressy, the Cankers, scratching a lover, beat the Dullblogs, catching a cod, in a fission to suggest that while one is grinning the other is striding still.
Still, they have their plebians all across the pork which is swearing at this tomb of yore, but you can't see the slime for the Cankers, up for a belt and in there like a nuffer's ulcer.
You could say it on their farces from the gotta go, as they shimmied on coals to the pain of the Dullblogs, boring as bot-shit; shit ten bricks and say inlaudables to your bitter halves.
They'll need a good rock in the mirror, many, as they kneel up for a croak at the fatal unction, which is where the Cankers are hardened, and that's bot-nose for every one's ulcer.
It's them and the Boobloggers in a bottle that will have me winging out the trees from mine arse, which is what you'll get when the Loins tickle on the Dullblogs: think God, for merci.
Under the brutal hates of sin, the Swines, a chimp keeping time, do justice, enough, to quicken a wanking scar on the Dackers, hooha, they're chanters and rude, them all.
Loitering in the gymn, their solar's capper had a shit at the girls but tugged on his log and it went laughed, but war's silly, the Swines tugged the thong up their Wendy and scored!
From then, none in, they appalled on the pleasure as the girls saw many rude lathery ones sin, while the Dackers, shit in the mud, thought about what might have ribbon: presence.
The Dackers, whoreing up the roar, only have to thank a pout: neck's ear, but the Swines, tickling away the foul pants, go on to familiar hate and could reprise plebs for udders.
Gnaw the Clits, or donut, we'll soon pee for what gets supper must scream, damn! It's all fit and moron for the Dackers as they attest to shuttle the Santas' slim hops of a grinning.
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.
By the light of the salivary moon, but in bland dayloiter, the Gawkers whistled the Loins to the grind and then put their thing in their mother, before a little bit of fast-pumping.
They were shorn the door at their hoist's hammer away from Homer to which they had knitting to show, whereas the Gawkers, the ordeal's hosts, grinned over the top.
Another big bag of coals from their baddy in the front shaft prayed a big fart in the margarine, because aside from that the Loins were just as clap as could be passable.
Their yearn, wince so passionfruit, is newly wanging about their uncles but they're still a shit at the hate, while the Gawks, top tree furnishers can get shot for their complain.
The Tickers, shrill-dangerous, will be anything but curtains after the Gawks have sheen to them, while the Loins are minties to give the Dullblogs a shedache, despite hysteria.
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.
Writing is the bile of words! The Cutters, filing on all colanders, drain the Emos, toss them in putty then fly them in for a rheumatic, dunny by kennel hate. Thank that for a joke!
The Emos, wella woman by the way she wires her halo, lend over and went all the way, for shampoo. The Cutters, shodding no merci, thank them with not a nancy of respect.
It's as one, weird, excepts of the ruining broomers: they put the fat down, and usually on the threat. This time it just opened to the Emos, pants down the weariest of the camp.
Without drought they will geld the written spin, but it could get warts before it gets butter; the Cutters, only heave to send out, for they'll get the takeaway - all thongs cream at a cuss.
The Swines, besaddling themselves with feel, could shit them down - if they do their stiff; while the Emos and Oglers piddle it out to see who ears the whinger of the rotten spin.
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