Saturday, October 17, 2009

Has baleen'll travel

This has been no author. Shared b y the rock. Rubbed by mint. Cared by worn. she's tattled tabulated the origin of thing. Not thing or S to belles-lettres bleed its sacrifice. Or the I between the O the send over the receipt.And the legal love, of places. Martrys the sun, no nothing Mona fares martyrs but she parries the buckets rinsing their tender, and this way spending's made free a word dirty with its oxymorons and morons who've burnt the teeth of its try out truth. This's has become her love .... The baleen my monkey the baleen! In that cerebral celebration the weird god no, not that but the atheistic day shadows its smile over the eternal avenue....