Big (Tom Hanks) Brutal Bed-beave, Puft a Bumball Youx!
I think that’s approxtimum. If you thank me now, y’tats will be preserv’d when y’ra’mum. Piff’s youth’s being frowned p’onponpon, but Why? That’s his tat-willied perverturbed Benjamother. Piff’s flute = a beast in a frail cage, but crowned with a p’ower o’er the poon - THAT’S why; that’s why his twat was wily, and lied to every perpetual vertibroke ever bedded by ‘ja’mother. “Piff, d’y’hoot fer a pair o’ bewbs in D’y’fail Calesman sale!? His butt crowned, the Why? thespian oared thr’poo-river, although, twats of wisen enough will lie, lie and lie for a beverage potential. Cervical Brokecervix Mountain has beaver-bedding potential!” Ja Brule mumbled. The Piffed Piper had a right hoot d’y’other day, with a puss o’ boots (no bs). I nodded at y’fine flavour; you collared up in time fer t’seman sale! Whose? Why, the buttiful cream-nudes, the whymper into these pillows; the oahrs cry’d pout in the pis pis river o’flough. Butt wait, o fwizen’d én - nowy will die, die and die for a big, undervirge potenthyme. See, a vice comes in two forms: Brokecerv mong-tang and Be-very bed-dang - jeroux? Ya, Brutally serious, like a mumble in yr jungle. Thee Stranded Pufter, Chad, harrow’m’boot t’other gayze, by way o’ fat-pussy lovin’ (nobbin’). No(bb)ddy enjoyed alpine flowers (Roman showers), but E-“You’ve Got Mail”-Coli caught him up, in time. Four Tet sold out? How’re?! Howe’er, thine Big Ears cruisenell social club via Why?mpy’s: A fresh bruisin’ binto-burger order; thee other e-queefers put out, in the heat of the e-meatqueef, to a scuba diving e-aficionado. Butters! Why?-ait! Eleph-wizened éye lashed out at nowt, but wily-pie waits for no piper. Tom Hanks is in Big, and a virgo (the vice-version of a virgin!) You broke my serve at Tom ‘n’ Hanks Tennis, and mmm’Bovary, bed danke! Louis Theroux youx a bone! But I’m seriousleh, Nike bumball boots in yr rumble in the bumgirl (hoot’n’ Piffss). Them Crafted Tumours puff out Chad’s life support (must know Bill) like a harlot’s sagbutt and - you know - t’other tayntz. Be the way, you byn a foot-in-puss loper (nubb-gropin’), and nobboddy’s going to in-jail you for all your penis-empowered flaps and golden flops. “You’ve got to be a male, a roMAN, ey?” Kool-aid cunttempt-plated with a plot right up where the misogyny don’t shine. “Fourteen teets, and a respectable album ain’t one!” he continued like a who’re! Who’rever thin his Big Yeahs might sound (crisp - a bruiser!) e’ll never suck up to the clube of Whymbelievers - nothing but afros, rashes and brew’d bint-bulges (udders). They who? troughly udderstand th’tch whiches bequeef’d to puttas - loutish as they are - pint the hott o’the dump thee quov’d. Parents back from Booba? S’got TV the diving force for eny fiction-bravado; a buttered wipe and a gait to go glyph! May June elephantime whisk peen a poon to all decks, and gidd’yup a lish-headed flout fack - a nowt-nuded willy paper-wait! To mank up a Big is a gray (verge) of a risk, a version with a hymsen - which you broke with one sweve o’a’ tame shanks (Shure microphones?). Tune this, adamant bonery: your boded m&ms are rope for the dunking! Your loose (but thorough) yoke’s a boat, worn like a seaskate bus. & Bums, well. they’m so real estate that to nick a testicle from the Books’ Lost n’ Tunegirl, would muck for a [shit on his piss].
