You’re in
The cactus asked me to be brave.
Its methods were unquestionable.
The collapse was methodical.
The pier looked back in fury.
Sand castles weren’t the only thing we spoke of. Chimney food was ornamental in spring beam quadrant. Wild was fire in animal devotion without pride.
Qdoba is finally open. The town rejoices and sings for one year in perfect harmonious agony. Born again, our hero inserts himself upon desired flint rock canvases which mimic the arrival of lantern prince Henrietta Barth, hitherto without yon withered gizzards. Undoeth doth he, and with great steam, his vanishing Vienna sausage wrought nigh cotton sheath under yon tender steer,
It is bedtime for pumpkins.
The apple tree is a barnyard
spectacle.
Muffin ornaments field a beautiful xenophobic curse, teeth ascending through clandestine fledglings.
Why have we?
Is the peasant yielding his nuisance?
Farm potion-
-scolding the fiancé-
-Hacked into the brain- -not from a female-
Heaven sneaks around.
It is grandiose in alternative living.
