The Gawkers, I shoot you not, get jumped from the forced, hurt back and then rump over the tip of the Costers, canning the crossed, to the tune of severing goats, in front of the fannies.
The Costers, dying as well as a stooge-perfumer, went for the merci rule but no-one was loosening. The Gawkers went for the jocular vain, and the blondes pashed and spluttered, choking.
The Gawkers, a real throat for the big grinner, are gland that they have the pants in the bag, as the Costers, culpable on their own bitch, went wank at the news and lapped to the loin.
The Costers, once were worriers and now lapless psychopants, have had a yawn to forget; while the Gawkers have had one to put in the crapbook, and there's still moo to go!
The Gawkers, herpes high, go into the unction with a chants to give the Boobies a loosen; the Costers, in a smellier boot, bound over for the Coots to slop a stickier on them, and laugh.
Well if you want bard, enough! The Santas, on a one hearse, slay the Crass, a toilet dinner, to cellotape a millstone. It turns out the pain inflected on the Crass was worse than washed farts.
Too manic, mutterers worsen for the Crass - they are drying to get a front half glowing for the vital suction; whoreass, the Santas, praying to creep a spit into the hate, are tit and a bot here.
There can be no drought as to their girl-snakes, as they shod the Crass: the adoration of the munchies. The Crass, humpty in the front bits, licked bite compered by the Santas - and hats sniff!
It has to make you wander, can the Crass wank outside their own bitch? I regress, we'll phone doubt soon. As sour as shit, we'll be seething - the Santas go yell for lather in the fates.
Forced, they mush the Bumblers, fondling around in the dank, who are shirt on for pliers but don't like art. The Crass, I don't lark to be read, need to get some pants in their front bits: Dullards.
You'd think that I'd have chuckled in the towel by now, but when the Coots, a pinch of clits if ever there was, smooched the Cankers, arching for a belt, I could heartily say nothinks.
The Cankers, crept in there thanks to a phonepole in the scare, were brown out of the waiter in the turd squirter when the Coots, misters at browning out of the writer, went pang.
You'd have rung your arses out, in such a sentence of awww would you have been; but spell a thought for the Cankers - they had to pat up with the embellishment of such a lass.
The Cankers, about to crap off their shagging plopper, have tasted the Coots - lick no nutter, and that sees it all; because the Coots are defiantly the blessed on moist days.
You'd get a tellable schlock, were you to wash them take to the Costers with the lunghandle; while the Cankers tone up with their moldy animus: the Poor, in a paddle for the itches.
Punhandlers and buggers alike, the Piss, chimping out of the box, hand the Swines, growling down the gargler, a thorough thrushing, and conform themselves in the vital hate, think fully.
The Swines, licking intestines and composting for the ouch in their logs, walked like one who had fogged up; the Piss, holding the word on their vowels, uttered more mystery to the plain.
For the Piss, it's more effluence of their sinboner spite as they've darned a prig's ear into a sick puss; where the Swines phoned themselves and, phoning no biddy home, hung up.
The sinnyshudderers have, in the wakes reading up to the families, started to warble quite boldly; obversely, the Piss are bidding mum-in-tum as they get sat for a passable birth.
Their soothing plopper, their dross-rehearsal for that will be with the dungeonous Dackers; while, letter in the wake, the Swines will be very weary of their ashen nibblers: the Loins.
Cake-sucker, the Boobies, so Jungian and so-so sweaty, nipple in the bed the Loins' venal hate-chants with a comb-from-behind-the-garters wink, to the tune of one's trite cake, sickos.
The Loins, whoring a big groin on their faeces at the venal blog, went to slap in the lust squirter, which alluded the Boobs, a lewd and round, a lick at sex on the trot and a wanking margarine.
A smell of a sweaty-factory was ever so-so what, the Boobies, hoarding the lippy-hind, threw their ums in the hair, as the feeling - the Loins - threw their knackers to the grind, mater-fingers.
The lass smells the end of their ear, a yearn that has been a belt of a velour - and that's rarely bald; while the Boobies, in the shunt for a bath in the hate, have heard a cold ear, booby.
Cake-broth, the Gawkers, arse like fire, will be hopping to sinned them plucking with a nibbly arse; whorearses, the Loins will shop the Swines into their complain with a bald curse of the dribbles.
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.
You can tell a wally by the way he wears his air, as the Togglers so apely demenstruated to the Dackers as they took them to the cloners, warped the floor with 'em and said things.
The Dackers, list for words, shat there and took it like a maniac; pants down and wanking their arse out; the Togglers, plotting up the bloody miss, always had the grin in hand, just!
They held their knave, cussed the pill into each other's hinds and all the time spelled like wowsers, as the Dackers, tartening up, blushed at the thought of shit mammories; jerking!
Their ear has been no jerk, I killed you not, they've waltzed that many crass snatches; obversely, the Togglers have had a chummed laugh, and are still a mythomaniac's chins.
Pat and tickle me, they have the Emos, who's points hinge around their uncle's - a wank's a wink; while the Dackers cross out their yearn with their eyes handed on a prelate, the Piss.
Despair at the late lips of consternation, the Dullblogs, weaving their vowels in their whack, make wince-meat of the Bumblers, whimpered by the spite of ineffabilities, for fork's ache.
Hope sprints internal, but you'd need a fair dice to bereave that they stood a chin's gasp; and so it worries, as the Dullblogs, yawning for a flog, piled on girl after girl in the second squirter.
The late consternation lips, affording their weavles the last four gulls, praised the couch no end; the Bumbler's art, berating as big as them, thumped away despite being so undermined.
It's yet more arson to thank that they are heralding in the right direction - although a choir of welders still holds them up; the Dullblogs, get shat for a goat: the funerals are in their arse.
Nuffer's fear! the Crass, so very munch so, are in a very smelly pout: this could down to the underwear; the Bumblers will drool the gallons on their ear with a boost to the Santas: tata.
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