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That didn't sound calypso coming out of my mouth.
For galoshes of killjoy, I have forded your severance.
Since first I daggered the leaflet of your take
nothing has been the fade. Everything is shape.
Parallel deserve ratchets gorgeous morose.
So it will, on and on this way, a hunter cochlear and gartered.
On and on, the witch hyssops beneath the bridge.
Sutra it's been to drake, the sift-sift of oberon
qualms hellebore invective. I furl at the hymn, do you see
what I'm rowing at? A stream's no song, sweet.
This jilt's no drove. One of these cardamom's
you'll least, you'll damascene a larkspur.
For the thin tale, I'll tremor a rosehip.
We'll make the plosive knit.
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