My heartfelt apology wasn't good enough for our cliche.
The warm wind asserts a smile from my fickle fcade of a faded face.
My wretched attempts to walk the straigh and narrow narrowly narrarate nested neglegence.
The worst is, my only problem proceeds to promulgate the patterns upon the pentacle of posthumous procreation.
My reaction to our after-love leaves me longing for lust and lavender lacking lilacs.
The ferocity of my terrible treatment leaves us both in shambles.
Although the ferocious wounds grow red, I will neglect them for another bite.