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Let's go to see the Ladies eat sweet cherries.
Lips are pink and slurping pulp with juice.
Nuns consume the succulent delicious fruit.
They spit the small seed pits at Sinnard.
The plump pluckers in the field arise a male 'ting. The dupe turns crimson at the tickling end. Enthralled by thoughts of hate-mobs at work, well, it's okay to embrace 'dems' sweet nuns.
The gentle heaves get the bare legs dangling and the hair, if there would be any, is gettin' dangling and tangled. What happens next is the beginning of the ripening. The chin get drizzled. A laughing tide makes a belly start a Merlot wine coming. If ya's not imbibed at that ripe time stage ya's not gonna ever enjoy a share of the dripping cheery juice. The forehead may
get wet and streaked. A hateful foe will never know what good Sinnard ain't missing. Then, wash, no dry, rinse yourself again. Pluck the red rose when it's full blooming. Beauty is beauty. Truth is beautiful.
If ya's get 'none' ya's got no excuse.
Life ends very quick, so
Pluck when fruit's ripe.
I'll be red-bashful now.
I'll go walk in the Wind.
What a cumulous cloud
Fun watching day again
Sinnard. I do blame you
so, maxima culpa to you.
