Fishmonger’s Palsy

This gloating, baby’s bunting, who where is why. I can’t rebus when things felt more addled, mindful of y’oar manners young man, clods speed you sot cad. The harridan’s pismire yonder squats, whore skirts kipped up round the bellows of her neck, such a prong de mal, and the stench, enough to send a first-mate underboard. I wouldn’t nay mind if she kept the leeside bluff, kips the squat from fishing, and that, pray toll, is mustier than yesteryon’s curd. Mindless of y’oar punters, a stern rebuff is on the whereupon, I assure you. The alms man panhandled for catfish, his alms cap making a roil of things. He whaled-on, touting the halyard taunt, fishmonger’s palsy, causes a bullocks to form on the heel-end of the hand, shipyard whore, three pennies to the suck. How many times must I say this be whore the time runs out? Too many too few to much, then a wee cutter moor, just for safekeeping sake.

The blazing hot blazing sun cut a friar’s toque into the harridan’s head, tonsure blunt, to keep the blazing hot blazing sun from cursing her dead. The day after Ship Day had come and gone, midway down the circus pulled stock, leaving behind a livery of pamphlets and spent condoms, reservoirs topped-up to the breach, a sloe gin fizz on a blazingly hot blazing day. The harridan about faced and gamboled this way and that, never once making a foolscap of hair self. She never had much of much for Ship Day, nor the days that followed, thinking it a piebald excuse for sac-races and turned potato salad.