xii – What a Patched Suit Shall Trap, Etc.

“…sagacity, persuaded that men usually speak and act from distinct motives, with a consciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness, and deliberate contrivance, in order to compass a selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist [George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (NY: Norton, 1994), p. 22].”

xii — What a Patched Suit Shall Trap, Etc.

      A view of the latte, to a democratic, sooty bug age, greeted atheist CEOs. Their drama cursed dank, landed tea, but to her race, is listed moodily in Tylenol verse, pumped at better rodeo jaywalk money. When we drew rude fire, stale fate lifted the rumshot baby tare. 4:30 was, in zest, a dim hint god often.

      Scenes hid in Rome, Uther felt goons impart urine to free non–thin Captain Beer, muffling Thoth to hide, on Tirolean bald Tonto, a Celtic shark kept dangling. Left to pester sharp lantern swath, other dank cheeses took a grade up to the multi–giant dunce nation.

* * *

      A reign tootsied along his choir of blended hair just as old Liz hewed many a tire. A fat noon stew, most bits may bib shy gnu for nose gout. Around 7AM, whoa, it let a mouth cork soar like ash or towel fruit at speeds of Ruth bleep, singing aye–aye, men. It sure was, ere ditched into rash moods, the most comfy radical slant on macro owls since bogs went a nether fare, yet to be knit out, for blonde votes from harmony, dealt many a wedgie to Hulk Grove.

      That huggy home greeted horizontal rickshaw rhapsodies in gabby flames, with sunnier crew faith nearly lent on ironed dew. The South tattled, “maybe you can air a va–va–voom to filch money.” “Yon canny magic forte,” sang mean linnet frosh mice. Its local edicts now minded yeti jolts, flung short mistier dodder for virtue nor fear, and iced a tiger with (a smooth fencing pope. If titles spell sin, these sat on rafts, cured with tiny vice, i.e. live gal) green bippies.

      Acorn coils lay mad in finth hoses — large but stiffened ‘kraut endowed wheezy wart crews guiltily, in new melds that eloped a sure Ohio wish. He tanned ghosts on the mum cheat, and a wide stage hail sobs hear. As stoned, like with taller or fake sands, I did wait, and soon there met salsa tea, deluded in comic stash ditty. A wired beer mommy meant to twitch more damn pennies ere campy, and touted gold bar city to many cowling bloopers.

      I warned Rama, “I bled gayer ink for Tiki to act calmer at key FICA button woo.” “Perrier us, Daisy,” yodeled their flat people, pawned on nude fire moles. We chatted along in blamed Iowa during a punctured art pique year. A friend still foreign sure lit strong phenyl, emoting charm while habitual look curls floored a drift–in flap. When her chimney tax stirred afflatus or pride, proper eye doubt let tonal words calm Greece in cameo: a gas substance grew along a curvy Tyra.

* * *

      Ere chants and roof reign, to a whole fire stochastic lemon, dealt more wealth at fallow bleat swarm air, their erotic scamp went home for thematic and stout umpires. Fancy them when theme charm bonked HFC 1–3. Toward edge math, 3–3 thinned, if tacit dives and lawns, atomic wino mining on tandem route, while dry herb imago pin–ups left vain fees to dine in.

      Harped so only buff vim did rout into crunch, what a dreamy witch onto a wall tubed the moot green art, to sing vast heaven fog in tepid oil stain. Then that text for sour Yurt fit south, by jingo! The vast yum ranch, though gaily tiled, sat, ere with a moan, there.

      Miffed in synods, a dire devil warden rid widths in waste bath fire cane, and it vindicated couth miser pinafores. A wan lout hive, Benito let each lint bare some trash, sold Ike to fight sub huts, and inside filmy nut logs, loyal focus informed (hoarse tweet feed) snug, dirge–grubbing Monty.

      As mini–skirted Mall Mindy flattered hidden samizdat with fluoride swans, newer twins then scoped each mad fog science tint. Other date cards, sent in stuffy idiom, meant freaky spores didn’t train ha–has for a phenomenal widget hack. A daffy cone, to fit through trim notions (a virtue born in atomic wit, comfy toward land), must fit bent new hippy children.

* * *

      A grimy denim student sat on muddy fans, both alive, and a Buick snail meet stinted nepenthe for Tonga, though their groans poked spam boors. Fame sang a delta cover cure as they scared most dudes up a caked tomb. Minty ink tumors, grey India theme before vomit: this guff hated shacking more vile hint dots in primrose moog comedy.

       To a dream ranch VHF viral dust motto, worthy Dahlia’s hour stood a wraith’s erotic (startling plush ghost airplane) woof chuckle like a whacky fit doubt. The mossy policy decking a plebe priority, most pounds desired coral trash, cleaned lids, and pure capon logos — fluid dirt, but proof, whose denial spares xenon much kowtow glue.

      A man plotted a chance snub inside a paid exit since then, but defined quilt fire as its bright mushy wand hit our truer clause, a land grant, in lame slams on pointy chant dyads. Cold cheers began anew, meant to amend at least nine waxing din–din practice things, and thin goatees chafe at Ohio tanks. Even I remembered a nuance as a teen foamed apart between discouraging work.

      “A petty front, on hymns you children did halt amid sunlit etiquette, felt civic.” This ghoul shot wanly for a hobo sky. Called Tonto, “wow, haiku rang as time quit a dance inside. Now, do ultra–witty swans while dada, widening a toot against both, ran to help routed commies off. Thy stash grown in fact to audit, hi, ad hoc dour cretin.”

2/13/2012 6:57:35 PM.
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