Babette:
You firer breathing troll that eats grass to make his eyes shine in the bright crimson moonlight. You write such beautiful songs! Would you like me to sing you one? I think you would. Hark the red flem from the belly bottom of a gazelle. You are just a high loping frog of the Artic filled with hot steamy baths for the embryos to bath in. The angles sing from the depths of despair with all the harps and xylophones playing melodious moss filled tunes of badgers weeping. How did you like that? I am sorry I was unable to wait for your answer about me singing.
Beatrice:
Holy Belgium ducks! Where did you find that song? On U-tube? Heck I do believe that of all the letters in the alphabet you make the best X! Well did you find the right CD case to fill up with you upchucking desires? I am sorry I was not able to help you on your search of height trodden cigars. The beauty of the setting marsh mellows was to rotten to take. Do you often enjoy the pleasure of hanging with big breasted harpoons?
Babette:
Well, to start off with you chocolate ice hole from Saroums tomb filled with rusted out pitch knives that have engraven bigots on them. My CD case was jammed full of songets that made the weeping beavers quiver till their fur teeth dislocate out of their bellies. I heard it while on the Mount of Pickles on my tour to the 3 wonders of the galaxy of Pluto’s moon. Songs that putridify the pollution of the stars air density is the best ever. Would you not agree?
To be continued...
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