What do you take me for?!
no, no, good opinion. It is a matter of organization. when people read, they look for the rules that the narrative is based on. Even star wars has it own rules that the audience recognizies, however foriegn the universe.
Television opens hours, not telling trees for Apple’s soured. Flipping chimps, not instruments can measure Greta’s physics. Laundry day, going says:‘‘wishing’’, while water spun a tail from bust-up, tramped-down muskets.
Frisky? Why do I feel like I’m being watched and not repeated, translatory Pharoah?
A dunder dooter, no more no less.
A number? A slumber? Bah, a hedonistic gyroscope still wobbles, donut?
A scooter! A wheelie plus a wheelie equals…?
Fleet can’t meet new Hooted-deelies;
Hip-liked jaded fruitful handfuls of busker veal…ies.
Amp-potatoed joy gosh-farnit, green-belt’s trousers falling down.
A good fucking wheelie. . .
The babble unearthment, his girth meant, he got none. The beauty that was is, is not mine, I shine, he’s swine, as we intertwine.
Genius! EDIT: Absolute, god-beating Genius!!! =D>
Way too deep. Or wide? Deep and wide? Sunday school markers, gumdrops: licorice binds the namebrands within the glands splattered, cracked on summer pavement? A wheelie, red.
Safe, master, blooted mask.
Flash the new-duo; re-sea me my water’s receading so I can’t help but feel like bleet weeding blasts penfold with greedy un-fishlike proceedings.
After- know flapjack with see me crepe seed grained into feel breathe me-life boasts…reply: ‘‘danderful coast!’’, until we meet Again, he’ll be on the loo.
…too good to be true… 
if we got reported, that’s wayyyy uncool…dude. 
On the loo, brew crew too, if you only knew, kid. Flash that new duo, they try and break this candy coated . . . philo phorum, with questions that contain the anger, yous a stranger, split with the danger, hark herald the angel sing, and I dont even not what that means, but it sting, eat green beans cuz they tells you so.
Group licked up salty all wish-were-not’s. Loosen key dark fattened spare new feeds…spoon…hark rend the imported sad valeful, trees fast like numbers fit up like new bees, day sole fuel into four minus the bed-wetted ideas falling like table-legs crawling. Treat jumped, handfalted new oldishness, waxing zeal for quart sealers.
oh the girls that burlish brash. Let me get back to the burlish girlhood. It seems well understood that all the curls that girls, making eyes dipsey doodle swirl, command the man. That’s nothing new as dew, dripping all roovy poo over the yonder ways and means.
Moose, goose, and loose, fuck the cous cous. Left via right, resident flight. Last to dice, suckling the night, tree bound spice made into sprite. Flour loading packet with a double grownup. Smothering ultimately shows up. Bang, recipe.
Now that’s the spirit.
Fast fist festing the fat one. Free frame faintly falling first, forever fun. Forty-four faulting feeders, flipping the fiery one. Fading through famine for the fat one.
Fool around, ya might get hurt, knock your dick in the digga damma dirt. Fallopian tubes. How about that Doctor Steven Trotsky? Forty-Five faulting feeders, mind you, they all being breeders as well. Famma lamma dip-thong dont you even bother ya whipshock slong type.