Motorised Saucepans In Kent

isn't it? kent fog burger faces driving in a motorised saucepan. A nine foot rod is better than a three foot stick and a three foot stick outsmarts any microfiber jewel encrusted steel bow when attempting to cast over to catch, kill and consume. Oh pearly pink mushrooms and cheeses, must you sway so and must the writings writhe upon the wind and ground to create such chaotic interruptions and vibrational discomfort. Well it is most hampering really. Hampering to effortless sweeps through the air with lines through the atom less sky. This is no automatic controlled playlist. And nor is it a bacon sandwich jumping out of the pan and leaving the camping stove at high speed metronome roundabout weaves. Like tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Oh go ring a bell then. Rather irksome. I however will spin and cast and spin around on the ground. After waiting several hours it will then be pull then gutted then head chopped after a short collision with a little rock to break the breath of life. Exciting expunging experience explosive explicative extract even eight eels. And eels are not wheels nor turning on tubular tree pipes whose drone knowledge spans the scented breezes of the triangle lake. At dusk. Variant variable vary. And a whisky and cream pie with a fragrant jooos is neither a dilapidated delicatessen nor a dragging depopulation curve on a Swiss cheese map of syrup shreds. Beam then break then alight the cable cars with ten trotting ponies, fifteen mugs of beer, a fortune cookie with nice long legs, an elongated pile of flamingos weighing eighty two thousand kilos and a small tie pin grinning. Now go up to the apex over there and admire the view with that crew. Then set up the tent on the highest peak and bake a culinary delight. Of over eight courses. Heavenly and divine and rather outstanding too. Cloud clings climbing cups. Z precautionary Z at nine moomins to eleven left handed chest of drawers. Xxxxx Z