Hide in the bark the forgotten winder spun the free song to the tired goats on the porridge farm. Hark so low the bottom of the fish was not where or when the first of all of the cattle tried the timpani dodgems up and down the tribal stares of all the stairs we have to climb.
Kind though it is to not speak the words of the organ grinders toenails. The fire in the blue knot were not the moon of the day. The darkness was not all the world had even seen or known and sometimes the things that you thought were not the things that I think you thought. Is it able that the truth is not for young people?
Less than the man in the corner shop bought a book on Yeats for the tree in the gutter. I cannot see the point in carrying on this monotonous riveting drilling of syllables. Had not the bye for the night.
I bet Google’s SEO spiders hate these.