Mona is this yer Monday or Maunday or or yes, yes or or de gold. Galloping spleen paired by her dreadlocks. This filth is on the veins. Sutured by 'rare' air, you come round this memory as a witch do on the gliding bloom. Yer sorcerer's apprentice appealing to winding feminine rhyme as a cup under thistle and down on the forest of the cheek.
The cheek of her! the nerve! the gall!