Malcom Turnbull a spatchcock avoiding arguments in bra & panties. His honest depiction wages a campaign out the back, where one keeps hose, twine. Mark out a pitch or de-camp and drink pepsi in the light, pacifism your way. To avoid the general (brick-shit-house; I can take anyone) we strain to act in a manner imaginary. A tepid trickle behoves you, white-haired and in thought, jamming most nights away illustrious. You’d say we prefer methods in the face of jazz: though should you ask (more than words) it’s all I’ve ever needed. An earnest political haircut not only seems witty, but. I lust for bling about the nose while you’re not doing enough. I’ve done most else. Malcom, waiters court flattery without haste or lying and I think you’re a waiter. Last I heard. So it seems times are a worry – a recent thread gets nasty; production teams are grouped as opinion makers in a certain sector; teachers look sour. This guy I know suggests you marry a zebra, but well before that, don’t speak for me. Don’t be pat. ‘Goose’.

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