Rife loam, breathing funny, scratchy head part, having a way with the tom-tom group, snappy little katy-did, home and hone, whither which way and the directions was slim. Do you remember your own cornpone moment, when the jacks landed slant on some counterintuitive board and the ball bounced so high in the sun, warmth and gritty biscuits, for the champ, ma, for the champ.
Retail failed, Mr. Jones. It balled up a hop snappy chipmunk paradigm skip jump dumpy frame codswallow macaroon bigger stand catchable knick-splitter with the hair-do from planet Cod. That’s the guy they should catch, if the clues strewn, and feather-haired beauty forestalling inevitable duty, as you have it, honor-bound and leather-scented, a status once more and about face nibble hook nincy nincy nincy arbitrater and the damned. And I told her she thought Chip was the middle one, given the Prayer of Manasseh.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment