And, then, there were the previously-lost boxes of boxiana that relayed untold stories of the sport’s forgotten featherweights, the pugilists of plumage known as ‘peacocks unpaired’.
Deer, if you even think about harnessing me to that whirlicote, I will buck you so doe-ray-me-far from here that my antlers will shed and regrow to their current size plus a quarter of a horse before you are even back on your trembling feet.
Some persons claim to be heavy sleepers, but I may be the only one in the world who could snore through the clamorous pandemonium of a New-Year’s-Eve party popping with fireworks wrapped in explodium.
Would duplicated keys’ second attempt to catch obreptitious two-timers turn toward another fail or would finagling finally be found?
Bon voyage, dearest kitty, who will need to adapt cat taps to a mode of marconism from their usual biscuit-making manoeuvres if wishes to share licks and waves expects returns of mews and faves. ; )