O HAGIOLOGY IT WAS A HELOT AND HIS HEEHAW

O,HAGIOLOGY- IT WAS A HELOT AND HIS HEEHAW

O how outmoded,living on trees as babboons and monkeys are like hagiologists are pretty not undisimilar. And being set by time entreats as time nicks and to the catchy but tuneful tales,its gongs euphonious and melifluous trickles by time turneth,prettily entreats. Amidst this famish,christologists like muhamedans,hung in tempting piety,slapped with crooked dint,mutilated hagiology and hallucination of the soul. Till insentient mamoth, trite and truce,piety refrain they to take,dew'd with windy sail. Hung over this graceless steps,fondling their navels.Still voyeaurs in this numbed piety,wagering grew,wafting ,waggish and wacky.

Viscous time,thou art sticky with narcisstic winds,thy mountainous field,bold to sport and so being froth to steed that by kismet,every heavenly moisture dewed,reckoned he with its age and beauty,that by law and naturewit's salvo on the earth's increase not ossified and nothing is spared,that like Hararclitus all things flow. That time and only time alone,grows to itself,neither spared customs nor the accustomed values and so,tis its kiss on rudderless earth,a vertex verdict of karma.Time by itself,and impenitent billows is vindictive of its artistic atteliery and stream of fugacious,pugnacious thwacked to spare no exist with salvos fondled upon its navel. And when it dost chaste,resorgimentos dost begin. When it chides,her lips barely open nor unleash its potion,supplanted upon every invidious windy sail and gilded passage alike,even when versified in ambiguity.

Like every selfied piety,hagiogists are nothing but sterile wishful cheeks, whose gardens replete of treacherous flowers and schadenfreude petals,basking in its vainglorious foils,are like empty eagles,smouldered by time's apocalypse. What pathetic appologia by recalcitrant apologetics,in their piety,time's sooth of windy karma murders with her sunset and sunrise potion.Yet,were they servile to its sonorous ploy phantasmagoria opprobrium.Scorning pieties'assymetry, even much more scold joyances of heavenly rapture and nirvana envisage.

It runneth like the winds and nebulous winds its glorious herald as glorious passage.And once glorious folklores goeth moribund in the mere twist of nebulous winds,sancrosanct on its pugnacious but fugacious milky way as the cosmos tintinnabulates,spareth not polymorphosis and mutants like hagiologies. Behold,burning midnight oil,beseeching paraclete for benediction,repugnant of day's gratify theatre of the absurd.A laborious feet beneath a laborious,dewed with heavenly showers of the reapers bundles.And lo,in the vacuous morning thaw,thatched by fugacity,it was an obstreperous helot and his heehaw,whose mudslinging,spareth not this pious speck,mortified his morphology,that undiluted crasses of personage,an unexpurgated mores and pristined achilles conspicuous with hagiologists

That visitant to a holy shrine,prettily supplicates his desirous breath,greedily entreats and toads his lips,with pleadings a galore,making he red and pale,in every crimson dance so febrillated,And not cloyed his wagging lips with censorious mean. Perforce will trove overflow its riverbank,wherein misty vapour,parched with blue funk,overwhelmed his unfair sight,an overarching menace,palpitating its oscillate,a palaver,embossed by gall infested pall bearing palate,palatable upon contemptuous lips when they with nebulous bossom,blots witly hanker of its blue sky.

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Entreaties spring entreaties even as entreaties plead for entreaties to greedily clamour like burning hell,whose clamour greedily stinks clamour.Narcissus irredentist so himself in a closet libation,an hepthacentric winces,hepthcentric genuflects deities above for windy benediction.In the hallo of morning mist tis tireless twists,tortuous verve,with haggard face pleads he,himself yelled and panged like a woman in labour,sowed tears yet still sobs till dusk,wreathed over desirous gilded fleece,pure same vertex,his libido,audacious to sport,hesitant grows painstaking unto its belabour.Still on his toes,with deities' lines toed;yet toffee-nosed visitant,a self touted toerag,like Sisyphus whose helot's admonition,his bone marrow disgustingly detest.Why him did you impugn,kith and kins of Grecian Sysyphus? Then why subterfuge on subterfuge,basks in his ridicule since helot's eyes,distant land and distant gale seen? Did he a clue borrowed,from searchlight beamed?

And in his eyeballs,he looked to chide. O bathos boy,refrain mortal entreaty! Laborious toil,beneath laborious sun,thronged with the smartest wrestle,an incontrovertible therapy,a balm to indolence,a medicine that wows undiluted apotheosis,whose writ ,every wriggle obeisance be. Plead so,now,if deigns fiddle,on thy mat and desirous knees,even for eternity itself cannot libate apotheosis,on thy bended knees. Fortune Keeps its apotheosis,where but indolence on the stampede. Time thwacks misery with its jaw,when the smartest toil and smartest grace persevere.O thyself brethren,not be bled,upon thy bended knees infecund.And in the morning libation,passeth his windowpane to apprise him and unto him,he saith;"Is hardwork so intemperate,o pathos boy,that winces cannot to thee succumb and toil?May it not spare thee,had thou smartest think it heavy to cult?Is thine own heart heavy that its salvo,so froth as teensy weensy or deadweight thyself cannot fire?

When in glasshouse,barely do you throw stones and when in Rome do as the Romans do.Those tearaway clubbers,revel not o revert not in their sport". To Whom,he again goofed,pleading tempo rose and windowpane shut,but he in reprisal heehaw as guffaw,obstreperous took the better part of him.And now out in a thumb,those sports synchroniously and asychroniously bedevilled himself,his hauteur his banacle,swindled his meeky face.O how the dusk skids speedily,the sissy still on bended knees,but window opened,though not to alight his siroco of sisyphean skate.And now,back from the toil of laborious sun,being now on the promenade,fondled once again his psychosis and rabid routines. Nevertheless,helot's admonition perpetually fallen on his heels,neither his heehaw nor guffaw,did the trigger pull.This ignoble clubbers,sunken morphed its palatine with molassis, Same supplication they tendered,but visitant was stupefied,when helot,his entreaty procured,succoured,by exemplification,seduced to moult.Alas,subverted piety studi

studiously inclined,now sturdily crept its mound,strenuous in the old yore,did him stripe,to elope to the strangle of ignoble den,he strewed.

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His pollard no longer seizured and from closet bended kness,in his retractile resin,that switched allegiance to helot once ridiculed.Strapping now in the moult,did his stringency fret,ovation rollicked,amidst the exhortation, Helot's reproach did not to him to condescend,tis he replicated by choice and destiny,the same treasured trove,procured,that which visitant on his bended knees,could not pronto,reposte,as if with the spirit of the beguilhg sport,hauting gongs,forbade and pool in a sinecure.

Ovation eulogised and when the mammoth had dispersed,left him standing with him,who repelled exhortation. And pronto,his chin fallen,jawdropping as helot heehawed and guffawed his teaser of temporised teeter and frittered" Had I been heard long,long ago,two glorious feet would have been this dawn celebrated."tablet of tears was his guerdon.Wail,supercilous cheeks,how come helot,,in the vacuous morning thaw,his gasconade and rodomontade,time's paroxysm,prettily rusticated and sewered its final stray?.And it was merely his guffaw that did him to moult at evasive eleventh hour,to graze he,himself,a transmogrified personage,smouldered from specious soprano? O pity boy,gan he snob tis but a twain he sops. Why art thou snob?

Ovation eulogised him,a helot of a vulgarian fraction,and when the mammoth had dispersed,left him standing with him,who repelled exhortation. And pronto,his chin fallen,jawdropping as helot heehawed and guffawed in reprisal his teaser of temporised teeter and frittered temporal;"Had I been heard long,long ago,two glorious feet would have been this dawn celebrated."tablet of tears was his guerdon,but the damage had been done.Wail,supercilous cheeks,how come helot,in the vacuous morning thaw,his gasconade and rodomontade,time's paroxysm,prettily rusticated and sewered its final straw?And it was merely his guffaw that did him to moult at evasive eleventh hour,to graze he,himself,a transmogrified personage,smouldered from specious soprano? O pity boy,gan he snob tis but a twain he sops. Why art thou snob?