This cockamamie pandering of upholstery is not what I asked for. Can't you feel the butter squish between your toes? The pink balderberries fly into my ears. Stark raving lunatic, pistola in the sky. Rise beneath the quicksand you, that brandy isn't mine. Don't you think that piercing blue flash singles us out through the rearing crops of time? I can't hear the bullet rain drops fire upon the hilltops singing doo-wop songs.
Arching of the shoulders I release the trigger from the holster up upon the bee hive. Think critically about the mute thunders and the green mug filled with machines. Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse. It stops!
It costs $10.78 to hear the myths that the thieves keep beneath their showels. It's the meta-prima role we play off the stage in the moonlight that keeps your lungs filled with air. So brush away the hair off that brow and bellow out before the worms...You are not my master.
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