The Ecphorizer
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Won spawn atom three beers lived in a dratful dip florist. Agar juice bland cootie, culled Ladle Wretched Ratting Hoot, wanton her whey anemone pathos inter florist deucey her grammar who awl sew livid depend the dock force, but Tammany rodes custer to looser weigh. Atlas the party ladle gull sour hawse and wind insight. Worsted hawser thrip airs! The horse worse a band earned. She gotten a cheer, annal egg claps. She felon deflower, an herder but. She saw poor rich in boils. Ones two haute, a neuters two coal, alas was write. She edit. Thin esteem in pull cauterize, and cheese tripped. Artery wile, the neck agile god tarred and slippery firm lane in the haute tup, and Wendover to the bat rheums. A grate BIK matters was heart, an udders to surf, but tethered ladle caught field gut. She winnows leap. The bars cumin; Your Sam Ager, Your Sam Miner, enters a Momma (Aladdin aims). Teacup bare, Your Sam Miner, whaled "Samba de satin 'ma chere' ants racked!" "Treble!" sad mobber. "Ma Porsches eight two!" ante criterion blooey snows.* "A grill with gouled heron red sin moped!" Their raquetty Carson woke Rat Wretching Hoot hew scrimmed inter! She flew ought adore, thought addresser pence, and necked, runt ardor knell forum. She dint a Virgo tooth bares hearse akin! Mural: Fewer freight obeyer bud ox, kipper weigh firm haute tups inner dock! * Actually, no one cared that he had a new status W. Burt Schmitz is a Western history and Civil War buff. He is former secretary of the Lockheed Canoe Club and once worked as a cartoonist in Indiana. |
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In Callowdown the country fair, A gallimaufrey gathered there With potty noses red or blue, Fright wigs and rags of sundry hue, A flapping, cheering, clam'rous throng They prod their sotted 'king' along, That worthy lifted stunned and pale From durance in the city jail, And plied with scepter, crown, and wine, With leave to choose his Columbine Who stumps beside him; trait'rous bitch To lead her lord 'cross stone and ditch With lying cant of "Free! You're free!" So fetch him to the gallows tree. Cruel hemp instructs An evil waltz; A mad mazurka Tripped to music By the drum And bugle corps. Give us a taradiddle there We'll watch the dead man dance on air. Such simple joys abound In Callowdown. Warren responded to our request for biographical information with the statement that he "was a high-wire walker until he got strung out. He now spends most of his time avoiding getting strung up." More Articles by Warren Fogard |
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