Receivable

There may be a third tux, teal yet
tin, as ogled in the early red and the
rye twirl. There would be some night
like the caliber eve. The beaver lice
would be the layered urn text which
cash, etc., hold: the red-hot text, a
curd pot, lousy unction, tedious of any
oil-hole kid and whose fun tonic—ivy
lbs. medusa by its crisp rot—would
be to scent to the inert camel antics
torn of what is wit rent; this text, dig,
due, armed by a not/ion of the pale
bluish nub, would querier the wolf
lingo one press: I can therein read nor
write what you red coup, but I ever ice
it, like a fire, a drug, an I, magnetic
anodizing satori.

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