Saturday

Ship of the old flock (pfd)

Pillion. Yes, stallion Mona, ricocheted over the hump. A dramatic fork at her lips. Thermoter at the pulse of things. She must be a gelid geogogologist. Not this way her metaphysics. So the pent up chair floating over the arras. Not the weaker sex, but a numerous account of honeys. Solomon to her Breckenridge. Not afamous character, but a personafictation of ravenous skulls. Not caps either but higgledly-piddedy_ O you varmint ! you mean piggledy? O say where fore you are whence to the chopping shopping bloc. Chip of the old transmitter.