An initial intent for a textile raid. The thingummy pasterfied naturally. Frame day hay, tabloid of review, Boyd go bong tock tax shelter. The yellow Muldoons, turnstile of mayonnaise. Then the blemic versions, shunned in a hammock smelter, those gone Pig Iron times. Virulent, tusk wallet squalid time stringers. My asphalt helment run amok along the docks with the ermine coated Rushmore hirelings looking on. Everybodys sewn up their pockets. The meters are on rolling dachsunds. By the dragstrip, the lone buffallo beefstake shimmer squeeks. Omlette patterns freed up, the rope’s loose!