I put the pizza in the oven with cigarette butts on high
The squarrels are barely old enough to make the toilet flush down the carrots on a long journey to the neverlands to meet a rock that looks like a courtney with bat wings and a vanilla clock.
I know the purse farted with seductive pens on the red flower that sits on the green carpet and talks in its sleep.
Apples are ugly with silly rings of hair that go up and down the slide to this place that they know and never go back cause the goat is sleeping with her brother and slightly checks the mail with the big fat lamp by grandma's side.
Lips are nasty with grit and stuff i call sissors that claim to be part of that dessert task and makes a score in the beaver damn that goes to the shed and takes a loaf of bread to the dog catcher and makes a sort of curtain sound and then tells the white t-shirt about this cool nail she found in the trash can.

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