A Sponge Is Singing

Love is a pink fluffy blanket. Swimming in depths of hue then. Dramatically shimmering in a radiating shuffle dust. Light reflective beams gathers heat. From no bard nor board can this sensation ever be fully explained. Nor can it be rationalised, sensationalised or carried away by Mr. vulture. Mr vulture is neither a culture nor a cosmic clam. It is merely said to be the chomping of truth, beliefs and charisma. But baking a cheese and bean sandwich on a rainy day under a six mile umbrella is a feat best left reserved for an operatic donkey. Rest assured that eeoreing will assist the cheese to melt properly and at the correct heat. It is too the case that a bucket filled with freshly caught crabs can just jump off the jetty and escape in a mirage into the waves and foam. Oh dear. No crab canopy with jus today then fir Mr and Mrs ensemble de court. And always wise to curtsey in a tight fitting frock. Because the glitter glamour is a glittery game. And to enter is to entertain and to entertain is to shout sea crisp sea crisp very loudly when the vegetables parade by. Many hats equals many feet. Ha ha zoom bird brilliantly baking breaded boiled baskets hahahaha monstrosity moving mice monuments. Hahaha left o ers singing. Xxxxx amplifications' Z z Z