A beetle can't die, ever, for ghosts have insect juice killed.
A beetle can't die ever? For ghosts have insect juice killed?
Well I never! What kind of fish teasing cuffs anyway?
When starch endeavers to be hot,
And muggy meadows type to sleep,
It really sorts me how to fly,
And screens me on a lullaby.
Pestilence! I shall not tolerate spectacles any longer! They rust their way through my newspaper garden and that means the figs to me.
The End
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THE GOODS
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What if my favourite colour is not yellow? And when?. This chapter
was posted on May 2, 2009 by
mattsmusemelangre.
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