Once upon a mendicant time, tenacious porridge ran stealthily abound the florid garden gates. It pestled and freshened, but not a single hurdling zealot plundered its vagaries. Pestilential and glory-pored, it slithered and steamed, unblessed.
Terra novas of war-thinned householders plaided Calyces's glim, but no flesh tine pressed into Mercie's bent to sniff the fords of porridged Quakerisms, nor fillip their rapacious bellies.
Sterning and wen, the sentients perused the garden and flicked their mordant lips upon the burbling oaten marl. With such pastern fare, they slowly became resplendent.
Whilst householders craned their pates high into the heckled must, their bodies thimbled and rusted. Pride-shoat, but dearthen. The quested race would proffer to ember to tithers, lester forever off the plexus of earth, before annunciating their nadir.
But the sentients had naunt a flidge of pride, and beknelt upon the baiden floom to gubble and suquor the missled porridge. The sentients levened and healdered.
While the householders remaindered no more.
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1 comment:
This is so great. I wish you could produce more :-)
~JD
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