A simple footwear is how I walk the stairs of the carpet flares.
The bare hair is a soft woven chair for my delicate pair.
Why is there so much care in the vaccum air to glare beneath the traffic spare?
The rug that pugs the hugs of the mountain plugs is near the dug of the socket mud. It tugs the lamp base flood below the ceiling bug.
I channel the panel of the wooden mantle that holds as a picture handle.
Where are my household sandals.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
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