‘Much as I might I can’t throw it off’ said she the harridan she. Her rucksack cut into the poles of her shoulders, an apothecary’s tin of Rimes’ Curial tic-tucked into the lefthandside pouch. Her mamma warned her a gun such things, tolling her that throw-off’s were gad’s curse on near-pretty girls and nobodies. ‘…that’d be the way’ her mamma said sternly, her lip curling up into the colt of hair mouth. ‘…no not near as fun E’ as a near-one or a farther-one’. That was the extent of her mamma’s quibbles, she had near nothing left to say, if nothing atoll. ‘…and should you have any idea of ever coming backhoe, you best scram it from your thoughts!’ Peabody cornbaskets weaved from woven calve, softer than lipids and agar. She ran so fast her hat blew off her head, a ribbon of locks flitting and jobbing every which every way. ‘I’ll see you in my dreams’ said the harridan running, ‘…I’ve got near nothing left to say…’. That night, deep in the back-quarter of the woods, the harridan pushed a tooth through a split in lip, thinking as she did, ‘…mamma’s quibbles are the anchor that moors me to Job, Killingbock said one thing or the other, silly fisheyed simmer’. Her mamma left a light on, on the near portside, just in case her da tour came rune looking for a square-quarter.
This gloating, baby’s bunting, who where is why. I can’t rebus when things felt more addled, mindful of y’oar manners young man, clods speed you sot cad. The harridan’s pismire yonder squats, whore skirts kipped up round the bellows of her neck, such a prong de mal, and the stench, enough to send a first-mate underboard. I wouldn’t nay mind if she kept the leeside bluff, kips the squat from fishing, and that, pray toll, is mustier than yesteryon’s curd. Mindless of y’oar punters, a stern rebuff is on the whereupon, I assure you. The alms man panhandled for catfish, his alms cap making a roil of things. He whaled-on, touting the halyard taunt, fishmonger’s palsy, causes a bullocks to form on the heel-end of the hand, shipyard whore, three pennies to the suck. How many times must I say this be whore the time runs out? Too many too few to much, then a wee cutter moor, just for safekeeping sake.
This gloating, baby’s bunting, who where is why. I can’t rebus when things felt more addled, mindful of y’oar manners young man, clods speed you sot cad. The harridan’s pismire yonder squats, whore skirts kipped up round the bellows of her neck, such a prong de mal, and the stench, enough to send a first-mate underboard. I wouldn’t nay mind if she kept the leeside bluff, kips the squat from fishing, and that, pray toll, is mustier than yesteryon’s curd. Mindless of y’oar punters, a stern rebuff is on the whereupon, I assure you. The alms man panhandled for catfish, his alms cap making a roil of things. He whaled-on, touting the halyard taunt, fishmonger’s palsy, causes a bullocks to form on the heel-end of the hand, shipyard whore, three pennies to the suck. How many times must I say this be whore the time runs out? Too many too few to much, then a wee cutter moor, just for safekeeping sake.
