Now Oliver puts his blank nightcap on,¶ And every star its glim is hiding,¶ And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone,¶ His matchless cherry-black prancer riding;
And stories in the bush may not seem relevant in the big smoke, but try telling that to a cocky.
You can always rely on FirstName BunchOfNumbers to have the worst opinions.
After he retied the knot for the umptieth time, he finally figured out how to make it stay tied.
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