With his Hands, Arp the Jean Arc.
Pleasantries over with attention was turned over and over and tossed. Listed painstakingly in bored key throats, his majesty resided in Fladengby castle with trousers so short that the dovetails at the perpendicular were excited by the above-the-knee flesh available to all seeking enlightenment from its aura.
Gape in throat cleared, words ejected; “Honey combed hair was the rage, anger felt first and its brittleness second. A windy day crowds upon itself, laying waste to those static,” King bellows.
June came in, preceded by “May I just take one more of those biscuits please?” to which July followed with Awe-ghast Resentment. Shirley, her disregard for ettiquette, was noted. Policy in place, manners upheld, dinner was served unto the highest bidder.
