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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