Cooing pop huckles. Minarlagy of funf. The latter craal-skeevers (anxious like bucket): froos, angle, insecure.

I keen my meringo this hopey day. I murv it. The hopcakes are waiting for the nested parlances, the nested parlances for a 6-month grace period, after which they will expire.

It all comes together as perforations in the ample slough — beastborne, tolerant, mint, and gland-handed.

Where’s my speed, the clock’s a muffle, the clown raises sham hackles, the plain stripes badger the nonplain stripes as limits to patience.

The men hack outside the door in explicatory gasses. They muddle and wink, halving their trousers. The parts rattle by in pink bones. The men are wuthering. A stag wuthers the hard waiting.

The men lift up the thorny leaves of togetherness. There is a pad there.

Under the pad, another man, horning a thought as a drawing. The pink ones wonder — bastard hardcake? Terrible wuthering intertwining a lumpy duddle.

The plaid couches, pro dusk and anti-dawn, haunched by men and soaky weapons like flags rolled up in glands while the plaid maidens change their lamb sprockets.

Inches and inches and inches of man, boozling and edgily nuzzling. Piranha potatoes! Limbering the cud. Sweat drapes. Miracle sinews absolute the free fibers of a flexibly ordered man, half red and half blue, on a night watch and skin patrol.

I don’t can’t — can’t can’t — a man. Hip dud. Catafrack. Pone.

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