The Chicken Tomorrow with eight mongrels morbidly ate apples' nuclei
with my cake-washing clock, because it did, and that's what it did, because
that's what it was doing, and if you've got a problem with that, then tough,
because that's what it was doing. The Eyebrow sat upon the tinsel, because
it was attached to the Chicken Tomorrow, because it was part of the Chicken
Tomorrow, because it was. Behind Splinky's smelly window-poles, great
few monotonous cloudy fish bit particles of dogs' hair. Thorium marmalade
cyanide and actinide cupboards are without actinium minidiscs on plates
of Pick At You Marmalade. The fish found the disc of doom and unbit
the hair, causing duty carpets to rise, and sausages' sheep transposed
by screaming Lulus began 27-1 up. Then, suddenly over a long period
of time the mongrels of the Chicken Tomorrow smelt fear of actinium mindiscs
amongst smelly window-poles. But. Uranium toilet-brushes with
mouldy crags shipped for cream of Bloggy tree pins. The pins stuck
to the smell and the discs were larger than a yorghurt mollusc fish dog
in a bowl of cyanide marmalade. The Chicken Tomorrow croaked "We
hit stonky blue medical vases with fear". He ate the Froom.
He kicked the bucket. He died. The Chicken Tomorrow wasn't
Chicken Tomorrow anymore because it was Chicken Yesterday. It wasn't
Chicken Tomorrow because it wasn't yesterday so it was a poor rich young
stupid old intelligent smelly nice fishy weird® "dodgy" fish with one
Eyebrow and the Chicken Tomorrow was dead but the poor rich young stupid
old intelligent smelly nice fishy weird® "dodgy" fish with one Eyebrow
wasn't because nobody knows what is actually wrong with green cats.