Is It a Mountainous Moo

The keys to a duck monument are timely hidden by an egg basket. Egg baskets can play marvellous games of ball in the high season when the brilliance of the sun passes through the earthenware titles like a mist above an ocean. How rather ravishing it is to witness the race of the sea lions, walruses, jellyfish, and urchins. Cruising in their cars. Around and around. High spinning waves attracting the whale commentators and commentators are neither comical, comedians, clowns, nor are they clapping clams. Ok then. Now who is up for a round of golf with the teapots and cups. They are excellent players when filled. But not spilled. Who could fail to be mesmerised by the yearly subscription to a tannin magazine but magazines are not moving moronic macaroni neither are they are fabulous catch after a day sea fishing or coarse angling. In fact they are akin to a bin or a halo of flipping flapping flies circling a giant heifer pile of excrement. Now that is not a wow to make a jam. Jams are not smiling today as they want to play hula hoops or hopscotch in their jars. Jars jamming jetting jingles justly. And the might of a king prawn leaps over two thousand feet to alight a throne on a plate. At noon. But not at dusk. For at dusk the tins of tuna come waddling out of the cupboard and give a dance lesson to the salad bowls. So that is it really said the work surface. Become basin like in ideological wisdom wit. For without is whipping and whipping is wanton wading wafting writhing waiting wallabies. Hahaha dome of a table arch looking at a placemat. Hahaha inkwell smelling a posh pansy posy. Xxxxxx nautical miles of a pan of liquid turnip. Turning. Xxxxx Cumbernauld chop. Xxxxx anthropological z z z z z