Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, 'Menthol, Menthol, you are one wazoo. One day I'm the elf next door and the poof I'm a river.'
One time there was five smokes carved Harlem sunsets on each other down on East Eighty-four.
They're supposed to be a major league team, but so far they've been bush.
He pushes the lawn tractor further out into the rain and angles it off to the side. Gets in the yellow loader and backs it out, turns it around in the gravel in front of the doors and drives it in to where the blade sits on its dolly at the back of the driveshed and points at the chain on the side wall.
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