Paget saw an Irish tooth, Sir, in a waste gap. Rats drown in WordStar. Rats live on no evil star Red rum, sir, is murder. Redraw a warder. Rise to vote, sir.
Some men interpret nine memos.
Sums are not set as a test on Erasmus. T. Eliot, top bard, notes putrid tang emanating, is sad. Nat is too bossy, as I say. Aloof, at lovers I had named I stare. Here smegma is food, a kimono is secret sin.