Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Hippy Style, I Became Eric Burdon in the Morning

We grew in a day; we are tremendous colours. Yeti and Steve Marriott (report findings), heaven let light. If the cultural imperative grosses 10 sphincter BruceWillis (rotflex), multiple organizational prologue on the promise of more guff. In the factbook market of true facts, someone dies. Every one else, they dead. We grew that day.

Michelle Bachman says hail to thee bright but. The unexamined rife squeaks on the margin. Promulgate spring on the day dad died. Autumn took to coasting as mom felt the pinch of existence. And you are words. Without blend, ye hearty, let's vote this trump. There is a crumbling send off formed of Harry Reid in the indictment of office. And we are planted, planted. Gorse is a ridiculous spectacle.

We grew in a day to say Cheney, dick. Which is the madrigal for ancient fetching with a rhyme for blank. The rhyme is bank.

Charles the bank, or Fred, or Greg, just to keep the system personal (I dispel you equally). We ask for a motion forward like people on a road. We get oh. Oh the name for nothing between. This harmonium has been found.

We get you, message in the sand. The sand is moving away. Oceans like their stretch. You are the unity of Michelle Bachman and dirt plus cheap. Union s a vital fad for breeching sync closing. In the new harmonium can only quote majesty, you are in. In is the in of in, being in to say in, wield in, wind in, win in. Can children play too? Children of the dawn of hope for all.

No comments: