Livid scones mix orange, chocolate, and molten hearts.
Attack, one too many in a dozen indicates a rule follower.
Bagel hole in two makes the grass eat fertilizer until it pukes.
That's what those little black dots in the everything are called:
When you look at me like that, I'd like to collapse, throw away my
trajectory, and live in your retail outlet. Sales figures figure in the
figurative mixture, and I lick those off spoons when I get the
trance. Fall another line down too soon, and yes, we are all
Going to fie fie fie. It's hard to type it, easy to deny; die last,
six sided past, succulent scurried up the water spout to
consider whether life as a spider beats death in a taxi.
Taxation sparkles: could bureaucrats once again take
a commission, y'all incentive addicted capital-shists?
Tell me without telling me: what does the fox say?
Pop culture's a Gangnam private equity firm,
and no amount of begging will enable you to
waste your life savings here (that's the crypto
magic: it's open to anyone, like a Walgreens
before McKinsey was caught pumping opioids
down throats who'd choked on their
economic principles.)
Roman Ryan 