Oh, constant poking fallacy, how do you continue to stretch upon ever-present morning rise? How shall I aim to dispel burning stream of froth, when you refuse to obey the calling card of flaccidity?
Ever present and raging north, I did not chose competition with thy horse. Cease this burning and this itching sensation; per chance I shall call upon the leeches to subdue my morning proclamation.
If the stable should find it empty, the curve must lament upon my blistered hand. The itch will not then, spread throughout the maiden land. I regretfully tug and scream in the darkest of nights. I fight this scaly dragon with all my holy might.
Suddenly, aghast! There is a knock upon the door. I prayeth not my mother any more. With a swing and gasp and a candle in hand! Her eyes fell upon my mightiest of man.
“Why must you cry and wank off?”
“Why must you barge and not knock!”
The curvature fell limp, a scepter un-bolden, I let go off the beast, no distance worth holding.
The sun will rise in the ever-present morning and with it comes the constant growing curvature of greatness!
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