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The More He Wears the Pants, the More Confused We Become

Engine design in the grey scale of clouds carrying weather to the people. The weather is a staff bearing us in trouble, transcribed for mandolin. There will be weather, icy or still rain, we don't know.

We think of John Boehner talking to Justin Bieber in climate-controlled heaven. A bucket hits the floor, paint goes everywhere. In a day there will be news of what in a day will be.

Justin Bieber will try Taylor Swift, who will look for someone in the cloud. John Boehner hides his head in a bucket, frisky with soft code.

There can be trees, even rivers, smooth oceans for sunshine dalliance. There could be some topic, tomorrow or later today. It arrives in a sentence.

There could be straight answers from some control group, that heads the group behind the Academy awards. We wonder if the Republicans even need time.

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