My nose is running south, I hear the baying hounds, I spit
these words out, like I’m eating sour krout. It’s not so bad when my ankle
twists. I think I’ll get the hang of it. I’m not one to brag but, I need to
pick the slack up, this ground will just crack up, so why don’t you just back
up. Still I can’t put up with the nonsense, I seem to thank my guilty
conscience. I’m not a cold blooded killer. I’m a bold-gutted thriller. Now wait
for the filler and here’s the throat spiller. I can’t seem to hinder any thoughts
I can render so I might as well be a sender of the word, not a lender of the
word, you’re a spender of the bird and by that I mean finger, the middle-most
finger, so put it right away before I take it right away. And off it goes from
your hand and I guess you’re less a man, so you got another brilliant plan,
stuttering Stan?
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