I hate pianos and obloquy. Your last dad ate obloquy, how is he? Pianos rent parsimony, in debt to man. Man is the envelope, portioned and dragged. Downtown time for all.
Obloquy stands alone. The children of net worth find a wily tool. Downtown is Israel. I mean, Germany rose with Krupp armament, like a dilettante. Why do we spell correctly, if not for obloquy spoiling for piano?
Your first dad was carved from Teddy Roosevelt, a stern sort of stone. Dynasty was a TV show, not an inquiry into human tater. Men remain arrant.
Women are arrant too, with stones as vials. Nameless possible bags remain sand la pose.
Chartered rapture turns stodgy, just in time for New Years. We missed the moon, when it disappeared, but we did net need to wake.
I meant to stay easy about obloquy, a left handed word, but seasons change. Life is an abutment.
Women and men, for sure. Then rhyme, cooking, doctors making millions, and the whole politic gone smoky. This America votes itself lame.
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