16 July 2012
haberdashery gung ho.
It were two and eight and hopped full of hard-tide, the mean way. There, you see, goes a distant betterment through the slog heels, and you & I shoulder in toward the steeply steeples. The moorings bent, and then some—first until paltry halberds do so bend high and whimper—impel the marrow slush with this: that pronged and fiddling fin-heel. Morrow the mare heaps heartily wheat hoar on bracken—and still besting the spades, all gone out to slat the kettle when, leathering, the kettle is broad to taste and slat-needful. Here if ever it is glanced upon halfway, the to and fro of labial powder hemming the periphery of so many cells, frontally. If there is and were a kindly feature, a jumping moose bell, I am for it. The partisan drippings have brought slick harboring to my twig pans.