Augustus North, Ninebean Atey-Crewe
“It’s a large crane that’s gonna brawl,” Snob Rylan.
The dark clowns quickly covered the overhead as the storm drew near. The son was covered in a mattress of minutes. The wind blue the shuttering widow against the stoned house. Me radio wormed me about the severed thunderstorm. Eye was poked by me grillfiend who spent the nite and all me clash on a couple of stakes for diner. She had one I poked out and whore a patch to smother it from sight.
I saw me illiterate sun from a pervious bedpan straightening the code as the brain poured down from the clowns. Being an optometrist, I new it wood soon end. Sullenly the son sod rightly on the rolling pills in the resistance. It was a glorious slight; the turds singing with bouyous rebellion in the claire sue pie.
I parted me girlend acousting the street, I rid her a pond a dew and reservoir. She spurned and said, “Lo long,” and pissed my good rye. Ass she squandered down the feet, she ripped on a back of concrete and feeled ace worst into a poodle of halter, get all cement. After see got off the gown, a pleaseman took her to a hostle for beechnut.
The best of me gay was water pouring and snot wart mentioning blue twos today. I smut git back to English hash and burn something. Unlil next slime, grab a rod and chime and mash all your testis in a pool. And remembrance the wife you shave may bee poor own. Ratch you crater, saul.