Читать книгу Letters of Not Lite - Dale Shaw - Страница 13

Now, for the weekending and the weekening of the daze and the dillydallying concerning the abstagnation and the never nearlyness, the chump who chunders the pagination of the month and the moth, hovers and heaves into views notwithstanding. Oh yes it does! Trussed up in clingarounds, sandy stones scarring the soles. Banished I have ole Greggster from desked-neighbourly, suffering with his sulphurous excursions and exertions, my nasal hole burnt aron it, ironic and a tonic. Nevermore the tea totalling prowess of old Annie the pro-ess, her Queen of the Prawns and never a round brought in, but always of excepting like a bergamont and a lackspittle. A throat cut! Her sister there, is it hairyditty? A showdow not cross the kettle nor neither. Let the big forms of their bodices be hexspelled from the witchery of my headspace. Oh releaf, under a bough and bow as the branches blanche old Blanche the Blough. But the worms flashed back returned into your binbox? Contrusion puddles the poodle in your noodle, yawcrazy and wisha, wisha, wisha, clamber an ants were. Pitee thee! Petee thoo! Potty too! Mister Typhus! Him clother the dor! In his mitt and ants wer! Cry not yet! A can-on-diced man! Not just a stoutfellow but with that a nascent nearsaint, stars arc when ham-mused but in cups then inn sane. Forward go thee, to the whole inside papyr for reptilecation. His throne will hillruminate my drams, as I squander on the rox, a ail, ailing my day’s tail, ma happydermus toasting a tan, tan, tan. On retrieving, lo a casket, a basket a brisket of bonbons, desecrated with seens of palmed treens and a salty sombrero, nevermore. Bynoon, a dessert in there, hand to mouth and vice and verses, blood boils and black bowls and abasing the baldyqueen. Tails tolled of clemency and awfulas belie from Delie, with knitbrows on the counterstaff when fixings are fist repoached. Efter seems thousand yaws, in reversal my forms, but yat still the gripes limply passus. Bitter ayes on anvil, no you hold the fort, lick the Army Man, a Left Tenant or a Bomb Dadear or a Primate. Met a sternum senorita with the tickle of Madman Rosy Litre. Tack me Rosy Litre! To you shock or hunt or lacked garage. I am hell-lopped alongwith my olive skimmed sad duchess. To an isle land of Kronthos of Polmopus of Gnaccus. Netter agin to the folded card bored of greeting

What now for yew? A nude job of learning?

Hold your applause! Wake until the envy lopes at youe scythe. The digdeep into the pocketfold and resurrect the lint laden current see of Kween and co. No, no, no. Strip those from your lobes, the boy is bound to trav well. Be symbthos for this deviated friend. A weigh Iago. Axe Linda no mention be four, be fine, be leave and takes your sweetgum in baresocked supernauts. When tireds reassemble forty times from now then I shall satagin. Be bound and bald to paint aunts or dream and more from commune cayun lines cut. A bottled massage sea perhaps? Never.