The blue in the golden hair of Zebratown have the white butter of Shock to Gimmemede.

The crack of the reek of lion’s mane whipped through the glaze like butter as he wiped the butter off his better paws. Pausing to flirt with the maid of the hour made him give an account of his whenabouts to his accountant.

Devoid of voids seized her beating heart aflutter with the butter of a better batter for the barter of banter in the pantry of horrendous souls. Cheap in the day, florid at night, the pair of pears glazed ever so slightly with a slight of hand–a pair of hands–two pears of hands–to slip into the whyabout and let them know just how far they had left to go before they could reasonably expect a different answer. A differential answer along the integral of the path from her hearth to Haverstone.

The Right Reverend Lefter Homes said absolution is for sinners–you may go in pieces of eggshell white–Declined!