Nake of orbs bite This become with a cane by lavashing you with
gifts not involving Spam or mooses with the ebb and flow of my own
ignorance massaging my left heelcallus coalescing into an ineffable
infinity of serendipity and afraid of the flower and said it was ours.
And then the little man boink As if hippopotami could sing! A
feeling that somewhere there's something I've missed The malt-o-meal
I inserted a slinky deep into his snoot