Glory be to the altercations! Glands be suffering under a hand like this, pulsating and the like not for bad weather. Undo your skirt-strings it’s time for the ball! Yes, the ball. The ball. Wedding bells have been known to knock, and loungers’ retreat is a haven for the unhealthy. Glim Glam Shim Sham Shove. A handed glove. Binoculars orating at a tenth of the speed of a perambulator. Withins withouts withal where with. Glib is he that hassles. And glad is she that shamoans. Boots be filled with nectar divine, the brood it deepens, they’re leapin’.

Understood of course that always it’s a thing. Mostly always a thing unless of course stated otherwise. Listen lightly at lantern’s ledge for leakings of lickleworth’s proof. A sturdy man is he who hangs limp from a ledge. And avuncular is the oily one, greased from head to toe. None since the nun sent for nonsense has such a scene been repeated. Father Trip will have his day.

In the sun they were basking with a lollipop apiece, none said a word but the silence was sleek, with contentedness everpresent anon. Memories passed between them in thoughtforms beguiling, a trifle it seemed to the walkers who passed, and wondered why not had they been asked to bask?

Crisp tender tepid tender foul tender fiendish ghoulish ghastly ginormous ghastly tender. They got their exercise through the employment of joy mostly, and though athletic their frames were not, something about the troop begged a lookin.

Furthermore to my earlier point about the five fingered glove: I only have four fingers.