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Shrove-tide

 

Lacking as I do a large bracelet along which an arm runs parallel to the switch it uses, loves choice-making. Would choose the switch again, but would also desire a new kind of sandwich and a good piece of crystal. Bassinettes up!


Coveting smarts me, and I want to master the phrase give me the things of yours that I like. So you'll give them, and my life will work without my making an effort. And so it is, I say. I, poinsettia. Would you like that? Of a fair mind and depth of character sound. It's all very intestinal, really. Brats in, brats out. And I see you apple-bobbing solo in your housedress, Marcus. No tell-telling!


Now, everyone wants the most expensive version so that they might say, for example, never was a hen so feathered, or all the women and children are sitting quietly in the lifeboats, though the ship is sound and floating fine. But what of the ship in its proficiency? Shouldn't I buoy better in my light bundle, my satchel of hair hoods? No! I'm off of offal, I say. And yet you expect me to shrove-tide going round in the evening to pelt the neighbors' doors with pieces of broken crockery! A smooth pedaling motion for you in such thoughts, the sniveling duvet having felled upon you and the fine backdrop of nit combs to your plush plucked bottom. What we learned about in school club: a plate of treats. It's all about the mastery of modesty, I often say, and then, winking for the little ones, I mean the majesty of modesty! One if by bonnet, two if by wimple. The day is hot and you're going a-caterwauling. Best put on your Birkenau!


And it takes a fine bee indeed to play the role of queen, for there isn't a belt under the sun that'll cinch his waist. A very good bee. I shall mock him for his craft-grade nostrils, handy in their comeuppance of a bouillon-scented bangpiece. One carnitas per mouth until then, mustn't think the lanced thought. Agriculture, love that. Shown up in my hanky, a chore for love as I cruise down the sex in my wax brassiere. Never liking much the idea of one nipple per person, I said, More. But give me too much and I can't decide where should go the potted plants!


My cuticles are in shambles to mimic my life. Mother's words, albeit the snaggletooth! One cannot be prim with such a tooth, and I will communicate such a thought by gesture: the labial tickle thrice a custom, the rinse thorough. And now what to make of this pet name, which I, love-drenched, give my favorite pets: Snaggles. Oh, Mother! I've been a live one indeed. Dredge me, but dredge me well. A kindness, mind you, there being so many slothful mistakes in this land. Ears boxed in a rough cupboard. No more bean salad for you, Gerard! Wistful as he watches the horses, their hulked hinds glorious in the poolside flex. A tail swats the grill, a tail flames. Soon a penis will fall off of its boy. And what will you do, Gerard? We must each do his part for the part-less. Pull your gaze from the smoldering horses to the fat mound of foods in your lap.


But what of Wuhls? Sweet Wuhls and his nubs, dander-stricken drapes, a light frothed from diapers slender in build. I shaped the candlestick. I did. You took dumps out of my slagheaps. I whinnies the cottages, my thatch-eaves bite back. Nocturnally pouting, a tight tremble. Wuhls turns his tiny trick, splendid with teets. I unearth the trick teets at box socials, leaving betimes for a tickle! A Jew's curl, crowned out.


The ferry keeps floating, we've heard. And the boyfriends in it, their mouths bright with ass and mineral deposits, a bruschetta of pleasantries for their handholes basked askew.

 

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LILY DUFFY and RACHEL LEVY are DREGINALD.


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