Discretions lurking in the subliminal shadows envelop my thneed.
Why has the plethora departed? Is it not my pusillanimous behaviour
sinking slowly into a gloomy malard? Notwithstanding the obsceneties
aroused by such perpetuous delirium, to leak, no, to snooze my
buttocks into oblivion, into the chasm of eternal spam,
I rest, I frolic, I wander ever onward to my malodourous larch.
I sup my cup, and hold steadfast scrupulous domains of rudimentary
But what of the trilateral porridge?
Have I not traversed the nodes of gregarious institutions, hoping for
just an infinitessimal moog?
As the preconceptions of iterated cabbages penetrate my ambiguous
malapropistic delusions, the wafers shall not decree, and wither
in the way. No, nor shall they, for my secrets remain to
them as a misconceptualised asparagus of voluptuous antiquity.
How can my cromulent expostulations embiggen such perambulated
Why have these paradoxial assumptions displaced my treacle?
Is it not the treacle of old, revealing itself to igneous rocks of
the cretaceous period?