Leftwich

Roseline. Equater. Ghana Sound. Benediction upon the dance steps of the Lord. The very horde is gold digger tramps. And all of their easy riders. See here! See here. I know what’s best when it comes to my mindfulness. Ain’t you never been across Texas. Snaking on bye? A real rattler? Bombastic and the figure is done.

All those toward and minor needs for redresses can go and float the boat. Hop to it. Bet tight with Cheer leader. Take the dance and win it at just that. Makes night hollers turn to what is homage. A gregarious but distinct pledge holder. The lead card and the sorbet.

Give the Herald his chuckles of cheese. Wish him wigs of locomotive cheese. An afternoon in the plain sight obfuscate of trumped up maidens from days gone by. The fierce recourse must request its tide. Must ease out flow with depth and candor. It was just a scratch.

But you need a pitch. Bet you with one eye I can see in the dark. You sense the other would be flying around in the candle light getting harangued by every zapper with a loose zipper. That way lines don’t get crossed. No the A train takes the A line.

Lists are for gaits and this one is closed. It picts the corsair with a trippy build on the Anglo Fair. The penchant for derangement is the slip that sits comprised of silly sear and tight rapt sequence of sussiance and snap. The honeycombs getting tapped by honey badger and hummingbird.

The glad praise singer getting down to his hoodoo in the punk straights of a true dat kind of broach on the peace. A real keeper in the blanch peanut industries book of hop lauds. The school days run a long of book chase ribbons. Making meddle out of founting silt-bed boggle boots.