Well, during the strike Clarence Drum comes pee-rading up to our table, all dolled up fit to kill in his nice lil cap'n's uniform, and somebody says to him, 'Busting the strike, Clarence?'
The lether-winged Bat, dayes enimy, / The ruefull Strich, still waiting on the bere, / The Whistler shrill, that who so heares, doth dy […]
He was, therefore, carrying in one-half of his sex-cells the factors for greyness, and in the other half those for bayness.
After lots of talk about the perfect kiss, their close-up lip-lock is surprisingly boring.
the perfect kiss,
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