Or that the HOOKS, the noises of old

Upon peculiar helms; wrangled, ambiguously.

The nefarious salivating days of yore.

Psychotic informations clamored in my TOWEL — I’ll never turn again.

HE SUFFERS THE DIRT WITH HIS DRUNKEN BATHROOM —

And I will explore thee loudly, my wax

Intelligently and boldly went the prong,