A rat was killed last night, sorry Lausanne, we are not Pitt, we use real bullets here, and thatś why we stick to the north pole, sadly, incapable of enjoying Memphis and Shangai like the rest of you, humanists. A guy was led on top of a red ant. She said, I am not there. She was. In her room, at the beg of the king lion, I, mighty tatty blossom of the new world, alone, also. The red ant wetted and up for a short one at his wishes, belled her real man: I am a cop and on your honor, the guy and me are just side by side, to restaure peace and protect Anna from harm, a real nut head of a loser, you name her? The red was told: be at the gate, look at Aleph and make the sound of the sea. There in passion, she scanded aloud: I am, I am, I am. Brad was too in this city, also wet and unknowing, led to despair: I will be, I will be, I will be and again me on top and the other actors under all, I will, I will, I will, alive, my love, my life I did! The rat in the cell of walls, ours is for show it sounds and it holds a sound, to the perequisites of the Empire. We are the ratadors of the telepathic lovers, they oathed. The ratadors were not well spelt, the spanish there noticed it well ahead of the french, too busy circumventing Brussels and the kids in tears escaping the ministries grief. You are in Rome the patadors, joked someone from Brooklyn. I have here writ: The patadors of Canada hold the door to Eleonor, it is signed Harper, it is legal, it is not a rude word, it just scolds when it spells past of a hoare...but it does not and this is why I honour the country where I threw myself to you, my sea. I created this trap for the readers, check the observatories, the well shelled catch of shares and holds of it informat. In legal proceedings and now confirmed, the queen, the queen bee, rules the playground from Japan for me, mister big in shit show as usual looking to the wrong window, you in heat, the red wasp solo...the dead actor signed off. Back tomorrow for the rest of Monkey the thirteen, team, I aim therefore I be in it, Oh what a name. My head, my new found fame and a room overtaken by the judgement of Gerlain. The body fell in A 707 he was spitting clear of blood, Eleonore.. It stains just a tad, the scatadors lie but one man is still with his bride. Mary B.
WHO is HE ?
(definitelly not those 2 dead sheet heads from that room, at Noviotell Motel, hey, labial Lavana! Bad joke, families, I remain sorry for eternity, smell the bedding, she? Me, hi hi!!!!)
Wow! That is trully freeeeeaaaaky, Ma Poli!
(definitelly not those 2 dead sheet heads from that room, at Noviotell Motel, hey, labial Lavana! Bad joke, families, I remain sorry for eternity, smell the bedding, she? Me, hi hi!!!!)
Wow! That is trully freeeeeaaaaky, Ma Poli!
