Oh me oh my oh mini skirts, why dost have thee given thine such empty promise?
The burns are slender and bitter and bright, and grabbing me hard and twisting my fate, and breaking me apart, and shoaling my frame, and impaling my soul, and beating my boots, and staggering my swagger, and churning my leather, and forever boasting on my deeds.
The trivial half suited fluoridated magenta spring suits you perfectly.
Wisked away wisked away, the stain under thine breaches is powder keg. I begged my mother to give me away, but alas it is of no avail.
The one for you, I said, dreadful pressure forming the crevices of my brain disfunctions the manner of my accumulated salient brow, and over and over again do the failings of my lesser contact give me an aligned sense of forboding.
Pursed and forbiden to venture further from this bravado, and a groin sunken to my breast plate, belated turnstile manufactured respresentations sworn off pleasures.
Instead, I am no longer this massive instinct and volumic threading cocked to expunge enlightened gentry, no matter the to sensuous blobs unforgiving prices maligned judgement and boat swain.
Thorough postures and voted stages sacrificed baleful wretched epoxy circular overdrawn spectacle.
Plight therefore seasick sailors lurched in the crest and gale strength turns the terrible into your sexist lisp.
Let it all go, let the beams of light and sworn off genitals and bright lights and the banter and the wait, and the surface, and the proud gesture, and the scheming, and the waking scorn, and the elbow flex, and the under arm stretch and the jury and the victor and the seacscape over land, the wake, the pale, the meek, the gesculating, the seering, the prize fighting, the further from sight, the licked prince, the venerable lass, a horses ass, a samwich, a ditch, a bought, a bout, a fraut, a lime, a jeer, a cinch, a wretch, a grab, a horn, a fan, a frame, a forlorn, a blot, a jet, a hammer, a fin, a sword, a shrine, a sin, a scab, a stone, a sheath, a swan, a slice, a cern.
