It was Laurie's luck (though she was a phenomenal pitcher) to have teammates who enjoyed the sport of lampoon as much as softball, so her self-esteem was routinely battered (in a polysemous sense) by their constant poking fun at her every move; on seeing she and her boyfriend holding hands, Carrie the shortstop remarked, "What a cute coffle!," and Morgan the catcher responded to her grouchy pre-dinner attitude by commenting, "How fitting! The sourpuss dons her albedo!" as Laurie pulled on her white fuzzy sweater over a lemony yellow dress.
A helot's heart is the linchpin of love and for you my soul sighs the song of the South My shackles, your eyes, At your call I arise, I cannot elide the bequest of your mouth, And if you should speak valedictions, Requiring my service no more, I'd accept this goodbye, Had no been my reply, My heart could not claim true helotry's core.
I play ding dong ditch with my sanity; I ditch it, it ditches me when I most need it, it flees gung ho to the next-door garden of old Ms. Flo: a bathetic bath where bathe the birds who watch me, in madness, struggling for words and when I least need it returns my sense, a guerdon for patient self-tolerance.
Slickers of samizdat sell their stock, Arrantly allured, agape at the page Brains tittup too timely to the tick of the clock, Scoring satori successfully sans sage.
Peter tried to escape to never-never land as he sat at his desk, looking forlornly at the eclectic mix of mundane paperwork that his arch, antagonistic cubicle buddy Alan expected him to complete lest he be subjected to Alan's muse of choice, Willie Nelson, all throughout the workday... Peter could guess what had been the fate of his antecessor.
She told him that he was raca for downing whiskey shots so ferociously with only a bit of nicotene to keep them company in his system, but, tight-as-a-tick, his subaudition revolted against this insult, and he began to think that mayhap he would prefer to make his decisions alone from now on.
And the visit ended with sympathetic synchronicity as I waved toodeloo, the soupcon of peony fragrance wafting up to my nostrils as I recalled my dear wife on whose behalf I had trekked to Maya's homespun homestead.
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