Mona parried and prayed to this

M ona's always sand in her toes. Trenchant ticklers is what they are. At Finnegans Wakes, she's shoes to go dresses, all dressed crossing her breed to bury her bore. What platinum waist-line is that? Curving round the curse, she's a harried bitch harridan to her love hatred.

Runts snap at her heels. Not so much as thinner than weather. She's kippered her feet in waste lands, approximate to her glowing self. A hand-made fell-well fellow's her better suit. She lives by the Drive-In. It's best her best lodgings yet. Re-housed by freight and luggage, she wore oxfords in Dublin. Revisting Howth Castle. Her bearable beauty is gyre to her bawdy ass. She's Jill down to her neck, geologied right out by her morals, rivered by each moat. Passing by. If she yammers plate and stick, it means come by my house wearing only hose, to masturbate. Her pen is mightier than her wisest s' word. Her sward maid flesh, is gaped to her wound. Unwound eternal night huffed puffed and blew her blue. Black coffee and cigarettes. Once at Lezard, she danced a humper's hay. Mother to her naked self. In body days of sweat ass off to dance all night.

Jill is pregnant with fancies.

Twirled by dual oasis. Her potluck supper is potatoe and onions. Cabbage to her replete bell of snugness. Not a lawyer to play good help 'novel's . Middle class fiction and middle class women've never curried to her taste. Her lesbian bookish worm is randy in the hot luck day.

Jill's the incomer runt to philosphemes, but her best pet peeve is gushy susan wakes. Not at dawn but the poor dusk of forover.

Then her breath is bigger. Getting there. Outwith her means she's pulled every garter pelting rope in her Gulliver's beam! Ed Sullivan comedy hour, Lucille Ball have a pall-mall on her funky day.

Fanny has Franny and Felix to her cat Pierre Poet silver, silver ware.

Jill calling " Don't second talk my hunch Franny! svous plait yer hair ringing fatleau."

She walk walk walk . To the nearby belles-lettres of stone. It's her coward's way out, her schizo rolling gait.

Mona walzting the Gay Gordon? Is it hip to her fife? O r near to her bog, she's brogue to her grace at the Reading Room.

Joyce wrote to her one afternoon, a nipping pen poised better. Be recondite! Be reckon!
Be bumble bee! Be bumble double bleecoming!

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