Trit Trot the Rider Is Arriving
oh wow sir george claremdon on a horse. trit trot.
A ninety nine nonsensical length of a trumpet voicing face facing west and east is a coastal cavity of dimensional spaces. It appears that even if a lobster puts on a hat or a crab puts on a dress the parties would be held in a nine ski party on a sea shelf. Brake then. Exhaust is not exhausting it is said to be exhilarating and exhuming exhaled excreted embryonic entireties' but entireties' are not tired or plush plumages they are the pin pocked marks of spray upon which to paint a sand dune. But not a castle. Castles carve carnage cartwheeling cartridges creating careless criss cross capers and capers are clever axe wielding shooting shrikes so strike no bee to the left of the thirty foot pyramid in a sparkly dangly dress suit. So speak the wild deer in the sea. Surfing. At over a thousand feet in a depth and ammunition annunciates articulated lorry swerves. And the wasps run through the waters like low flying bats seeking a kill or a bunch of children towards a table of jam, jelly and ice creams. But what of the table runs? What if the produce is so flat it cannot be bothered to be conquered or consumed by an overweight globule. Or a lobe. In many a lab many a liquid prick. And many a liquid prick ensures a horse van deliver a kick to a jump in a forty thousand acre screen. No ha no x no z. Confrontational. At thirty four multiplied by seven. 1 2 3 4 5 then.
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