Humble he say woebegone and ferrimont. This lacklustre whirl is not of my calibre. I’d rather crunch thy mutton peg than dress as fark fiddle. But blessed be that fruit that begs to drain its juice. And so would I were it not for that rattle and thrust of the viper cones which bustle like buckets in the wheelspin of daydreams.
It were her orgasms that did the plunder. oh the thunder of her passing was a distant daze on the dreary days. For all I know, she said, it could have been me.