Enlightened rants...

[Edwardo Piet]

Then or than? That is the question!

Whether 'tis knobblier in the mined to supper the swings and marrows of contagious fortitude, or to make farms against a pee of tribbles and, bye composing, mend them. To dye - two sheep, no more. And buy a sheep to say we lend the headaches and the thousand magical socks that Fletch is hair two. 'Tis a conjuration remotely to be itched, to dye two sheep.

Two sheep - purchase to scream? Eye, there's the scrub. For in that sheep of deaf, what creams may cum when we have shovelled off this motor oil must gift us paws. There's the aspect that makes celebrity of sew lung wife.

Four who wood bare the wisps and corn of thyme, th'appraisers rung, the loud clam's Coventry, the fangs of described loaf, the whore's display, the insulate of orifice, and the patent mallet th'unwordy takes, when he himself could his colitis make with a bear bumpkin? Who wood farmers bare, to gunt and wet under a beery wife, butt that the Dredd of sum ting after deaf, th'undecorated Crunchie from who's bum know treadler reboots, puddles the Whill and makes us rather bare those pills we have, then fry two others that wheee no knot off?

Thuds, confidence dearth make cowboys off us hall. And thuds the naked Hugh of revolution is sticklied haw with the pail cats off fort; and extemporises of grate piss and monument, with this retard there colons tern arise, and Lew's the name of achtung!

Two sheep? Five goats they say us. 'Tis not the swellings of Gabe that let us to this here Trumpet-maker. Why art thou asketh of us or so sayeth the Elven man. Why else would he require our service? Because otherwise we may be tempted by fate.

Triangles, they bespeak the options that are ready. For silly trinity farts squarely on other shapes. Twinkle the trinkets gruffly or we may bespell our doom before we even have one smidgen of a chance to dispatch our ancestors from the platitudes that pave our way.

Well... at the end of it all we have to thank our cousins, the dinosaurs, or else we'd be lost in a sea of holywood movies that lack JP. Jurassic Park? Nay. 'Tis John Paul who did died twice but not twice but thrice. Silly poems that bespeak of bespeckled deaded post-popes respond to our efforts to murder all trifles.

It is only then that we shall thank all disgruntled herrings, both the fish and bird kind, to fart onwards and on and on to kingdom come.

But not if you're from Clan Indigo.