Is n't it quirky,a Siroco blowing from the north to southpoles,a sizzler,a scorcher,sinewy,a sinedie sinecure,and behold,the ubiquity of the skinflick's sinuos blanket,a skulduggery,slaky inferno of the slags and the ilks.At noontide,windowpane slanting,bard on the sofa,ducked in brownstudy,scribbling a doggerel and then a slattern,bumptious virago,she spoke in the second person singular,a dissipated bunghole,somehow slangy and a slap and tickle,slapdashed with volleys of slapsticks,sledging the bard's slice of life.And then the first person singular the sleeky damsel gulled in the cosseted duplex,sometimes as tutelary tut-tuts the turncoat treadle,her oak subsided,at last in the duologue,bunged and fallen on the treadmill's landmine. smothered.Alas,acrobatic bunny girls on the sprout like brusselsprouts,bunkering licentious bunsen burner.Teased by machismos to Burgundy wine,dunced with bibliophiliac frolics,a golden nest of clam and clambake.Clangerdroppers as the cockcrows,cockcrows as the clangerdroppers.
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