With a street girl, to have picked them up, a father has many children.
Speaking the truth about, because of, ganged up on.
The sun goes down, all quiet of he says, at the schoolhouse behind.
Making boisterously noises, without parasols, pterodactyloideas fly.
With a conceived child, flushing with water, my mauvais sang. Or, with a conceived child, to let bygones by bygones, my mauvais sang.