I bent down my finger crown to frown upon a big town hound. I first, fiddled the pillow of my thumb middle, then I tripled the simple dimple of my sound horn pimple. I next, jiggle the giggle of the flagpole griddle to make an acquittal of the holding heart liberal.
The speed deed heed of my music read gave me the need to feed an african drum bead. The elephant in the room was roaring. Spacing the cross of the record boss, I made it to my company's photo gloss as a renown performing tic tac toss.
The cost to my boss was more than the backyard moss.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
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