Thursday, February 25, 2010

Mona shew

Mona silvers bone. Pot black brown its trodden wheat. Mister B comes further working his timbre. Feet spelling the rich loam of his tartan gloam. Tipping her hat. Not the kind of derby the old one wore. Ported you fool! that's not a word for busting up keeps. Narrow your nerve keep the stern clear. Clear is the dog's wish on its starboard ...   well we're not sure, and neither is Profeesor D. It was our first movie class. And detectives galore. We saw him well knowing he was trying in his dying.     Before long there were seven of is. All followers, in billowing gown and cap.