(You will find none of this in any of your respectable literary tomes, nor in a college text or a folio. This is shear nonsense, the mark of a cluttered mind. I promise to return to the empire of language once my stay in grammatical hell is done; not an iota before).
The Bishop of Chelmsford is in cahoots with the Bishop of St. Märgener Fuchs. The Eshoo Bros., cocksure oarsmen, sending a warning shot into the clear blue sky, Oblate St. Martin of the Vine singing alleluia halleluiah halleluiahs, the vicarage sister pulling her habit over the earflaps of her hat. ‘come with me young man… this is no place for a child’. The Gotthelf Horary sells postcards with pictures of half-nude woman on them, ‘what a charming curio’ says the curate, who’s own mother posed for one of the postcards. ‘this is no place for a child’ says the legless man’s da, fearing his son might catch syphilis or an unshakable cold. ‘I wouldn’t bring a dogman here’ he says pulling on his son’s coattails. ‘eel thieving bastards’. The Bishop of Chelmsford eats his breakfast in the canonical kitchen, the front of his surplice bespeckled with toast crumbs. ‘what time is it?’ asks Bishop of St. Märgener Fuchs, his hands trembling. ‘cahooting time’ say the brothers Eshoo firing a warning shot into the clear blue sky. ‘alleluia’ sings St. Märgener Fuchs, ‘halleluiah’.
His thoughts clambering to get out of his head the man in the hat changed his mind and got on with the day. The sky that morning was bespeckled with clouds, a fiery yellow sun burning a halo into the treetops. Sitting astraddle her bicycle Leila Kildare sang out ‘God be with us’, those awaiting the arrival of the Witness hallooing halloo halloo! Padraic Moisel of 2772 Arbutus Place worked as a coal shoveler for the Stáisiún Chuas an Ghainimh agus Glas Tuathail, his back as wide as a livery door. Knowing that the day would bring him nothing the man in the hat set off for home, the fiery yellow sun lighting the way.
The Bishop of Chelmsford is in cahoots with the Bishop of St. Märgener Fuchs. The Eshoo Bros., cocksure oarsmen, sending a warning shot into the clear blue sky, Oblate St. Martin of the Vine singing alleluia halleluiah halleluiahs, the vicarage sister pulling her habit over the earflaps of her hat. ‘come with me young man… this is no place for a child’. The Gotthelf Horary sells postcards with pictures of half-nude woman on them, ‘what a charming curio’ says the curate, who’s own mother posed for one of the postcards. ‘this is no place for a child’ says the legless man’s da, fearing his son might catch syphilis or an unshakable cold. ‘I wouldn’t bring a dogman here’ he says pulling on his son’s coattails. ‘eel thieving bastards’. The Bishop of Chelmsford eats his breakfast in the canonical kitchen, the front of his surplice bespeckled with toast crumbs. ‘what time is it?’ asks Bishop of St. Märgener Fuchs, his hands trembling. ‘cahooting time’ say the brothers Eshoo firing a warning shot into the clear blue sky. ‘alleluia’ sings St. Märgener Fuchs, ‘halleluiah’.
His thoughts clambering to get out of his head the man in the hat changed his mind and got on with the day. The sky that morning was bespeckled with clouds, a fiery yellow sun burning a halo into the treetops. Sitting astraddle her bicycle Leila Kildare sang out ‘God be with us’, those awaiting the arrival of the Witness hallooing halloo halloo! Padraic Moisel of 2772 Arbutus Place worked as a coal shoveler for the Stáisiún Chuas an Ghainimh agus Glas Tuathail, his back as wide as a livery door. Knowing that the day would bring him nothing the man in the hat set off for home, the fiery yellow sun lighting the way.
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