I found a candle tin next to dining table end. It was blocking the door for the gentlemen to score on the dance floor. With my tuxedo tails slipping my hips, I skipped on to my lips to smell a wind gail. As I was scanning the scene, I saw some of the ladies looking stale, "shorty" I thought I was headed to hell.
My stomach inhaled some of the buffet kale, and I need a rail to make it to the toilet to bale. As I was walking out of the stall, I tripped and had an eyefall. I noticed a stranger in the hall. I turned to wash my hands and suddenly took a stand. The sink was filled with some kind of ink; it had an amazing stink. The blood worn mink was itching my think.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
©quaker
Q