The writing was painted on the wall, as the cliché does decree,
However, it forgot to mention the 3d effect it had, launching the lettering at me.
The vouls victisiously violating the Oxfordian laws, wherebe'st they do not attack, just willingly allow themselves to follow suit the age old constanant W, whens't it organized War.
The war would be nothing if E had not evaded capture and eradication to evoke the Enemies of everlasting even ground between the wording and word the writer had written.
But whens't T's treason did forgo the treaty, that would've, if it could've, thrown a truce on the turmoil turned up whens't W met A, and agreed that E twould act as turncoat, thus, through trials of treaty-less seasons, the enemy was branded E.
But R rummbled, ravaging Enemies at Z-Crossing, raving rampantly at Club-C and revoking the orders W and A had reduced it with.
Left with no option, as R refused to plea, W's distant cousin M ordered R martialed, but with military decree. More ever, R wouldn't wreck, ruin, or rampage as long as the more-than-capable martial kept it under minimal movement and maximum security.
S was staffed as the sergeant superseeding the martialed letter of word, so soon the snow would fall, and I's ice would carry out, to every letter, M's strict wording.
"Dictionary, dictionary, where was thou whens't I needed you early? In the shadowed shade of the Sunday sun, studying words which dissect the other, marking them off, with the tick of the wrist, a single word, however, can cause my mind can glitch."
So I say: "Dictionary, dictionary, where out thou? I need you now, for my thoughts have wrought fury on my mind, as the word evades my memory, and my memory outruns my mind."