Tits it is, how joy to tweet, my parents don't understand. Or, tits it is, how joy to tweet, a wisdom tooth is here.
I'm bore, to write down some words footloose and fancy‐free, to get three circles in red ink as the passing marks.
To have prostrated, by warmth on the earth, it's saving me.
Her term is over, on the butler's breast, flowers of dalmatian chrysanthemum are there.
How heavy her thigh is, my chair makes sound creak, a ship goes.