Then the boggarts came. The pleasures of the surreal poet by various anon Saturday was a yellow ticket day, These days are ours, mulled mine and crabapples do flurish, if I were but a tree than surely, Squidgy pink something else will squidge on, with our wooden trees and squidgy peaches, so much fun Water did the melons groovin' all week with you, twas but the sands of time, a fleeting fancy, this is one item that can not be dealt swiftly.
Boxes are square and somtimes round.
Nothin' can hold me when I hold you, a myriad of thoughts transgress the staic wisdom, or should that be googolplex. That purple ickyness, that purple ickyness, oh that purple ickyness - so purple and icky. The golden axe doth strike the softness of you mind, drawing sweet blood. And her nipples heaved with the rising and falling of her heavenly bossoms. A creaky rusty golden brown gate hanging lowly infront of the dark monstrosity of a house, never a home.