iv – 296 Used Sugar Jam Tunes.

sola fides sufficit – faith alone suffices: from a hymn sung on Corpus Christi… at issue is whether a service conducted by a priest who skips segments of it is invalid; Anima argues that what makes the difference is not the quality of the priest but the intention of the participant [William Langland, Will’s Vision of Piers Plowman, E. Talbot Donaldson, tr., E. D. Kirk, J. H. Anderson, ed. (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1990), p. 172fn].

iv — 296 Used Sugar Jam Tunes.

      Our lame jar then banged when wraith eyes thought trout were nearly hit. Ere some drachma did my foot, a deranged form, thy grifting herd, surfed on tart things. Violet Cayman rub out quite joint photo width, if lard–hinted dada may feel each dearly, and station hula did fun on hymn elves, faulting yammy fields.

      Nay, though its swat, oblivious to springy halt, mewed a Moxie bender that changes in hymn ground, fumy sad elf wink crooning smart mud heats kept fey; woe with a looser unit sat on a hurt hive clone.

 * * *

      Mental song tar, eke worrious crux time tore a wharf, knitted bug mice next modern abode. Mondo’s yearning lemur track a–ying with endemic team noise, a scathed finish that fond, slanders away Thor’s skater fees: who, gone to lager a wide creme inside jail foyer, hints at wine resting?

      Old barge bobwhites invoked gamier cantos, warm hack mistles when loud dirt got rough with windy usher–toted green Hee–Haw wool. “Elf, I aim nigh this loomy height,” put in a shy Reno goner as the new hue glitters felt. “Whew,” he emits, “honey, see a live oxen emote enough, silently twitting out high scare math.”

      “Don’t old witch gainers clunk at uncouth civic loot in Tonga?” “Sir, gagging on vetoes, all we put thee,” a tux teeth louche muttered, “winks with zero glee. What dirtier pelt animated forth, eh?” “Near a loud yak, why do dun wains cost a ramp to 97 Ithaca tent kabobs?”

      Sassy girls fudge into steam as a dicey drip foments both bomb coax EMTs. Tag on hated font, chirps neuro–putty, yet ill youth rough and sew worth hell. “By Guam salad then, stay there, husky, whom Punch laid.” Their group becomes floral. “I squish combo,” rails a needy firm gulp most sleek. Soon has Haji dealt heed when Esquire’s vote on city pools endears seven diamondback Cheshire shrines. Expect sedate pyramids in such rotted need!

* * *

      On a lean pinto left to sharp icons, Latin house witties cue $9.12, iced as Crushy, muttering, mingle tilth heap hymns, honey, brings on a kite:

e. e. rode the sedated pyramid;

That silly mate revolved in drains.

Yet Brussels quilts bely hirsute zero:

Then death’s horde here paid e–i–e–i–o.

      “If then, crude file man, I’d linger at mighty bunk–out dot gloom, there, ghosts, frothing in funny gloam, met vulgate feet not borne.” Most fun creed hooty wound here: baldly honest peace foray elves bent on Greek march wear. By a gherkin pennant went aged mites big time. Even tumblers wham mud, built onto swivelly edge cork anew.

      Ethers flew out with Deke video scone bakes, a nice school they lost where an item left arsenic for gamey lint. Ergo, thaws whined at starry lads; every exultant pearl, while fluid, enticed ghost kite Capote until wide coin, loused into with hubris, meant dime store V–8 panned Attila’s mangy wax.

      “I’m a wild orange urethra, weedily cold rube, as I call uncle to milky lint hulas.” If cuties wing Vitamin E, e. e., gift poet to hub tropics, took tiny dot hue, how nude lust for dumb mice chose looted sauce!

 * * *

      Being too hunched, askew along love dunes, Ivan committed guns, banjo thuds, mental reefer pings, other din–din, and far snore talent to every narodnik lout who fit knit foosball creeds worn during breathy dodgeball kite eyes. Such Ohio teeth loaned prudent tugs, Ravel elopes out itchily, sheering hotel hounds. Ethan describes all heath for Custer’s truant weather dorks’ detox horn as nine cute bounces.

      “Mitch, hee–hee, under a united neo–love, is solid bio–nest sauce.” Beyonce’s shad, a teak dud, lost a wooly nudge at shy sauna cues, yet a breeze now trips sunken M’ao tsouris. “That’s done on vigorous, trendy wood, sedulous myth, and coined cyclic drool.” Loud, wild notes lie south to honeyed fog, immuring thereat.

      Grown in hirsute wool, thick T’ao curry hit out, “why do lusts hack vaster friend hookey than royal doilies, neutered at Lorelei?” Yarn undearly must sit here. Few broom each ultimate pepper out, or dunk either whitewash, brown diet residue, or WAMU–7 upon foul sandy detail: a muck past greatly diametrical denuded fun.

      So a chow, sans bouffant, warned oblong souls, “yet a ratio got koi in pathos.” Dire, coy mounds even saith such rigor is skirting Jain egret enmity, yet here reverie audits a beat thud bonker, if moot Hanoi tithed a ring in lactic mire of tacit feeler tempo.

      Fairly devouring heaths into stoned hearth chubs, a beaver hid ere ethereal eyes wafted in freaky violet field wemble. “Wild crone, you’ll break catchy swains, gilt as blighties dunked Sally in the hung pan nests. Now I’ve a wood gourd held forth on drab awe, their long dead madam, nor wish over melee if thy limp darting grind foisted erotic bank wealth.” He winked at Louis and loathed Huns as Lenore risks a stout lithosphere acutely.

      Twice new, time moons with loud belch twins: “aha,” Avon flared, “you threw in metal grind.” Scolded a neo–flan hub, “tough talus, their rummier serve needs sapient theme if the front root ale.”

8/9/2011 4:48:27 PM.

3 thoughts on “iv – 296 Used Sugar Jam Tunes.

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