go to your tripe.
Your god is a bang.
Do your language
Cold because of my mace.
Density darkens it;
And peace is a killing face.
No one bothered me but now
There is typing and laughter:
Do the swill; do the krill; do the bill; do the mill.
Askander feel I gold martist weird is a nanking dosing boo.
ReplyDeleteI shot my tossed trifle and blotted out glade with a pretty safe answer.
Goo. Flew. I am a clock.