qua diddy poot., kervinen and p ganick

e-gad! a spiky heart with downbeat of a con man. the moon out the window does not try to enter. its nasal occiput was assured by the marten gone to sleep before waking to flatter and bow. not a peep in the town, maybe it was kitee where we saw the fancy slippers in cohesion with a fearful black blab on a quack mission au jus. concordia jogs the knap made of rattan. it has, duh--i am a dumbo---of the credo there is little sed. an end zone so magical as to grub fumes with the provision a coptic textile, so fey as to line the terminator's bed can cling so sullenly. eardrums' lump trade is an overated racket. caged cookery ribbets and sways ere we become cogs needing to be wet-nursed. there has always been a solemn taboo about stocking rubella with a pine torch. after all it might detract from ensconced proceedings. dissent puffs a fixer's, lawyers covet garlickies, airlines shake with whom was shown engorging a mulch tease within erotica's lien. an carpal tunnel bid for the old job. it was so bana to see the pressure-cooker boil the cute lambkin, now so sore that it was cooked. no one dared make it into rabid and plastic op art, that was left to the lower-casein guttersnipes.