To please the pleaser a pheasant in bright armor must be lain upon the table drawn and quartered and the tarot be defective. 
The townspeople must acquire a stenographer’s perfect circle to gyrate spirits in the century’s sock hop.
I haven’t the slightest inkling as to why the radioactive sheep follow me and salivate. 
The lavender pollen blurs to instagram’s wind and the hammer falls on those spread lithe in clover photoless.
With rounded folds and hue of flesh with scent of pine the fortress at the edge of town stores flax and hemp for months to come. 
Here is a corrective measure. Here is a collie with a frock in its jaws. A cockleshell covering the mermaid’s sockets. 
Sometimes I feel like a ghoul in a kimono. Sometimes I feel like a sphere on a block. SometimesISometimes I
In this one I donate my shells to bank and rank my possible offspring strangers the world and myself being stricken.
In this one I sell my shells to bank and forsake debts fertile with credit though nothing occludes my wanton visage. 
The peahen hobbles over bones of cardiac and emerald males along the path. Where with what I can I move.