...The Chimerical Afros are to linger in their pre-dawn heiroglyphics, being owned and operated but never sublimated. The Green Figs will hide out in their slacks until we sing the praises of pee. Why doesn't Everyone sit down? Please lay off the blues as I haven't yet bent back The Man's fingers.
Clam Nation will reveal the logic that gives rhythm to form. In the case of The Lumps; count their daisies, bracket their knuckles with onion skin and participate in a wax museum. DJ Jeez! is the one responsible for tickling. He'll get out of the oval oven after having stolen The Lunglord's head, but for the rest of us, including Those Who Stink, let's just hop forever on the right phone. Someone will have to stick out and be counted upon to hamper something preppy.
...it's getting close to the time when The Granny will up and cuddle The Knight. Did Those Dudes take the charm out of forklifts without consulting The Resident Wart?
Going hunting for monthly scenes on trips at night will be protean chic but beware -- whatever The Church Chumps sing, remember your guided zebra yoga. We shall stratify The Boogie Like No Other in and out of range of The Diametric Photographer because they might be aping rather well. Aunt Ether should inquire after The Noble Bread's playlist.
Showing kinship between their saintly facades will be The Thermos Monsters.
The Beached Minks could shampoo quite evenly. While everyone is laughing, The Plump Brigade should sit, moist, in the trash. The Fancy Stilts will be sued until they become odorous of sensibilty and get into Jai Wipe. It would be a super-imposture on the tour for the arrangement of soft down to be made into a quartzlike foodstuff denuding Three Year Wasps for The Pink Yeast Colony. etc.