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High atop the rich rebel bunkers on Pork Moon Hill, the
invalid Cretin Valhalla strolls the sentry dune, twisting his
carrion carting tool at a low rate of speed.

He wishes for the early dawn and the swift erosion of onion wear.
Fourteen leagues to the west, minted bisons and coconut fiends pass
the time by journey gagging the lunch-room polyps, on a bed of peonies.
They look not unlike their ancient forefathers who strode magnificently
across the land in turtled rickshaw blazers, the custom of the then tutorial Estruscan landholders.

The chill sweeps across the plains and the hour grows near.
More than double the number of gorgols will be passed in the next
nonce, and even treble this sum of garbanzo beans.

And now, with pillory banions and roast venables, the royal festival
begins. The turquoise Cretins surge through the gloaming to meet their
crystal defiance, under the curious stare of the motley bisons who,
peering erratically and without restraint, stand eleven inches to the
left and scratch.