I wot the agent of the pilfer was of Macbeth's own selection, but nevertheless, such unbridled f*ckery brooks uneven and insolvent among the more calcified jewels of paradigms and parallelograms and trick billiard shots.
Applied with the proper English, the dervish 9-ball can cut a wicked arc then crawl over the rail towards the floor.
Such things have I seen, and when I am gone, the experience is whispered in the shuffle of the dust. Crossing across the upper atmosphere, the rare air, lungs kicking at the pricks, racing against the terminator, seeing a glow of those first rays beginning to gray the blackness of the void.
It smells like somebody vomited pizza and Mad Dog in here.
The instrument then of the prescribed up-come-ance, a flip of the glittery fingernails against the cloak's philactery, and the putrid procession coming like a coal train. What's that you say? Peyronie's Disease isn't contagious, but I suppose it could be like a lifestyle choice.
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