The pan in the sky creates green.
When your Stanley has fewer than -5 ears, my angler grounds primarily for waterfalls.
This message brought to you by the Post Teen Mutant Morphin' Power Apes.
Can you smell the color of the Cocaine Puffs?
I have said here fewer than five boxes.
A writing exercise chews its cud. Can I get subtitles please?
Star fall, half pipe, halo, dead.
Granular clouds of gelatinous happiness will sink to the bottom of Pegasus.
Permanent Jerry Curl tastes like ugly.
Trees find your arrow dart. Oops, your eggs.
7 comments:
Epic post. I am tripping out.
Pickles are not saucy, only mayonaise.
Seafoam green spiders tickle my toilet paper.
Fear of gourds is dangerous to the brick logs.
Galaxy cole slaw feels like sheet metal confetti.
My feet have the texture of rainbow sugars.
Commercial fireballs lack the refinement of pudding.
Ethereal rodents fear purple affirmation.
Increasingly erroneous crutches revert to underdogs.
Gleeb glax and flarbal flab slap slinkers into the carq.
Time warp back to 1969, hippies.
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