Cold Duck Plaything On Red River Drink

Why the happen from the chance, Crom?! Today when the pacific is a trade from the tune to oven-folded head of your dear pal, drinkthink my chances at the lathe, I crumble coal for ya. Not a hanger, but a gliding thing that guns trip down from hotpot frightening heights, fly butter, or something such as like a fried butter pavilion where to rest your deepest tot. Wink the peel if you slip down on comedic chance the pop of iffy stuff, like falafel and smoothies made from old loofa things, radio men emerging out of froth strewn stew. All the goiters made our appetizers wet, the free-floating gobs of fist abandoned to the casa, and masters of teal and other leaden tings go belted into night. Whiff of birdshot from your doppelganger, Mr. Chance, is an encounter with your times. I still the harshest waters. You, messianic Oyster, eyes wobblewarbling over pages made of pixilated vibratto-hustling, stand in the shadows with the figures you hear to know. You'll get there.