12th May 2012
Tags: creative writing
Category: picture, poetry, writing
He had a pince nez; the one with emmentail cheese. It was dark mourn day; a place of hush. Coolio felt the catastrophe flare; on love she could rely. the game was spent to exactly free; ten men were lonely.
In the half light, expectance swore; it would have to be tea at the bistro. She took the left side of the passage to the door, making the creak.
Marsh spent his time in bed; the day wore on. Cat controlled the signature cox; she was pleasant. These were the scores for dozy Breadalbanes as they met at the beach. Gypsy said the rain had come; drifted the silk.
Therefore there clowns; cupid to decipher. None paired, fun breathed; the counter of the meter. The lyre looked up in the art of old; there was a man in Timbuctoo. Ever with the mace he flew; ajar to the brain door.
Do a twirl
Number a fish
The vices were close, as the friends drew nearer. Coolio was wrapped in velvet. The lice swore
Heck a find
Huckleberry proved, dangling the pier. More rain of interpretation.
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