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Clasped in a bubonic cholesterol ring, a one-eyed paste
wafer sits belligerently, sifting the barnacle ruins of wasted
Bessemer steel. His right tenderloin spindles through
the vaseline bench, but finds the corduroy bunion exit blocked by the
long syncopated sutures. Although the two certified chisel jesters
have decreed that osmium platitudes are solely the result of a
toasted barter gap, it would seem to the wafer that such symphony
can render only the cleft underbelly of a gothic molting hen.
And this does not provide him with careful consolation. Hence,
he wires the post ladder to the mission featherette, sprinkles
the entire mixture with wine-brisket chest olives, and springs
to his tiny fetlock tentacles, splintering the orange varnish with
a tinkly soprano shriek. The moment is lost and all of Tantalum
stands in ruins.