Cold? That’s better. Never between the toes, oops! They blacken sadly and fall from grease. Dying, putrified, you need to give it a good sending off.
Dry-stone stiled by Linda McCartney it’s right up a vegan’s broquet. Meatless. Horseless. Some traces of shrimp. Impregnated with complex formulas to resist prying.
Duckworth lewis jackets are pocketed, heated, gusset for spent toes. Old ladies can’t resist you duckworthed or lewisism for the record. ‘Howzat!!’ for third degree burns?
How damn you Madame! Get your staining off it! Can’t you see with clarity the lining is cloud-sourced?
Matching shoulder burden available, no doubt for limited overs.
Whore compatible, matey stitched, a pleat you can call your owen. Oi! Give it a twirl you great prannet. Or cuddling, tum-swells, family of joy not fourth cumming.
Available in seizes. Two colours like Honchi’s dog or Jintu’s ear puss. You buy it or you get it, perfectly hurt you while you sleeps.
Caution: ssssss! Hot! Made in factory SWAMPED with powerful acid.