Far be it for me to pretend to connect the preverbal dots of ancient anachronistic parlances, surefire analogies that predicate the reader’s enhancement on bikers’ rally jargon, set forth by the eyepiece continuum ergo cosmetically rich but mean in temperament social order.
Satiated by the lust of Tom Dooley’s overture, a peculiarly obvious repartee of second-guessing Satan’s dictates, is a tempting apple for man of prehistoric providence. – Sinz