Unfortunately I find I'm unable to write. You never had that problem, never had to fight.
Swish in sandals, heavenly dreaded scandals singing overlong in temples gold and making men feel young and old. I was white and bored and black and cold and wired to fail. Magic muffins burn in brown and challah loaves from Chinatown did frown my friends and eleventy-ninety never-ending disco bending botany beauties - walnuts wild and other fruits, I did elope and pas de tout did you know that far below, the TSX, I wrote it down, a silver quote that make men rich. You want that cash, clutching savings in a book your advisors so much trouble took and bishops knights and castles rook which check you out of fortune.
Tralala, said Sherry Sweet, from 119 East Dover Street--her rubies slippers on her feet did flit and float on Sunday. I never saw her bottled hair, I always knew she'd never share, I couldn't care when her auntie crowed of how she'd hit the jackpot. The mother lode! My poor toad! It's nothing now to save a tree, when green is black and white is wrong. Of manic men we often sing, a quota on our list to fling, a fire into open arms, we spread a blanket warm but made of lead to cover all your good ideas?