TAUROMACHIAN EAGLES

The sun had not pleaded eerily for the morose lawn and by time,the eliptical oval had lept with pang to beseech the berserk hours and withdrawn its tantalus of tentacles,the lachrymal grief of morose field,was imponderable had gone grey.Fresh variety make them all blokes twisted bramble,all red and pale,as time's beguiling sport all too dainty and crotchety smothered the encroaching thorns.A thousand sweet kisses boldlypluck them lull yet still unapt to coy,blessed coons at the nimbly coast.So soon as the morose sun was gone,pleading his stupedous girth as he was restrained.And now lost to fortitude,doth she remorse to avert the downpour not to suspend her lips from the immaculates of sacrilegious fouls and stoop them dry.Now impecable feet struts high and mighty a tauromachian matador of mischievious blanket therein catapults the umbilical torero of golden morn.Over his couser's rein of gusto impasse,dingy they flock to camp,to masticate stratagem for netherstrike.The golden boy gliding hid in trenches where