One Word Each

There was a twentyfive-spotted man who used socks as feet, until that big nun hijacked his eighteen beautiful mother bears yesterday evening. "What was interesting? Except the trees, the jeeps of dirt, and nice were captured right or not." said Nice. Glenn thought for a few weeks about my pillows. Then he visited his most disgusting nephews in town. Afterwards, when Hogan was 8, nice gave up. Glenn blacked out. Then along shuffled a mill-hunter who surivied Easter. Smell bough nice. Mis never ran in train station unless sleepy. The twentyfive-spotted man went inside Beef-Wellington. Battle-Funhouse realised that was naughty. Hmmm, thought Glenn, whenever nice fell for bath underneath his tent cigarette. "Holy House! Your scent drives me uptown! girl!" he sang to himself. "Taxidrivers must never remember cabbage cake" replied smell. "Which one of you do you mean?" he shouted, while nice observed obsessively. "Shit." Smell shat on the ground. "What on Mars has he shot with wooden bullets!". "It's I" retorted Mr Mis. You never felt alienated when you wore a pair of shiny, glass trousers every Tuesday? Certainly that would comply the motherfucking peacocks word games!", a passing colecovision shouted. Even Glenn was excited about his own private fashtank service! Smell ate his balls. Nice when outside and wondered if it was time to go inside. It seemed plausible that my fake shark's appendix has a good pepperspray-feel, but mill-hunter sailed to more pleasant and juicy parts of breakfast-land. Often I couldn't play chess upside down. Often I couldn't play chess upside down. Battle-Funhouse wept cranberry juice all day long. Glenn left smell alone because they rocked, one-two-seventy-three pumpkins every hour, every whale. "Don't try paintball brushes, babe! Try homegrown elephant grass instead." said the twentyfive-spotted man.