Do you crave it like I do? I honk for it, sadly. But now I honk not, thanks to genuine meat marquee with the confidence of dry meat. Lie to your lady with firm gristling lunch tubes, unspoilt by even the wettest outpouring of cloud awkwardness. Picnic? grave? Matter.
A wilful and considerate love-partner will respond to gentle chopsing and giblets, umbrellas are so balls, I hate them, drippers. Meat marquee won’t allowed rain on genitally modified sweat-meats. Genuine Meat Marquee saves any bother, for an outbreak of dryness and sore itching. Warning signs: Consult your farmercologist.
Extreme wetness in the meat department? Bung it with Genuine Louis Vuitton sandbags. Beckhams do, so YOU MUST YOU PUDDING. Genuine Prince William and Princes crab paste prefer one to a tree. K-Y Li-lo OMG.
Two-way breathing, double seemed, ripped for her pleasure. Apply liberally after meals to keep rankness out of cobblers. Be respected, be taller. A weighty all-round the garden. Mechanically recovered, unpugnable, rampant and visibly more in that department.
Sausage tops? Hoho, no need! Not in this genuinest meat marquee, it’s tubed up massively like a pro gutter bastard. If it oinks? Bullet it, joylelly breakfast it away and grin meatily! No more wishy washy wheatgerming, meet like-minded lovers outdoors in all wethers. Take it like a man who knows an onion! Woo her with a genuine dry meat on the bone.
Dry meat. GARANTEE IT OR DIE ALONE. Tantamount!
AWNING: Do not take with udders.
