The free parameters were no longer free, but they were cheap–cheaper by the dozen, or by the tens as spoken in metric-speaking countries.

Regaining solid footing, the feet entered into competition with the late-arriving souls, lost on their return from Machu Picchu, the Panama Canal having gone to the ball game for a brief tour of duty. Corresponding rules of particularly proper rank harmonized with the layer of crystal in the distal colon, around three o’clock in the evening. Injected seas into the parapets of offence caused plenty of trouble for the partial parameters differentiated from the colorful mutt on Saturday morning cartoons. Miraculous weather and innocent doubts abound in the outfield under the spectatorship of the Suez, at three o’clock in the evening.

Water stroked the shore with an isle of corn plantations until the plaster lost its buried knees aloft.

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Harold heralded the hounded mouth of Flemish faces, unresisting one idea for another.

Bunches of flowers bunched up in hunches of bananas laid bare by the hare of Haverstrom Circus–elephants included in carnal throstle. Morning nudged at begrudged judges of Bournemouth, and old men tendered their pennies for a roll of the dice. Ignorance to the contrary, the pastries bamboozled pure joints of mutton and sharp fibers of etymology as prim as a pram. Friars of gold and silver, that is. Warrants of opposite kinsmen singularly availed themselves of Woodcock gin, blowing their weekly salaries on austere humors of state, having come from softer climes.

Yellow stockings heralded Ginger’s memories of Harold, but Walloons thought better of it.

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Like I know the hairs on the back of my hand sticking up for the poor and downhearted railroad from the station at the end of time to the roundhouse of last year’s chaff.

Chalk walked into a bar and said, Hay, who put that bar there? Hay said Hey! out loud so everyone looked at it as it pointed slowly at the trailer full of hay making its way down the highway, the hay highway. Good grief laughed, but bad grief said, Good grief, why do you have to do that every time? There was total silence, like in a movie just before a bomb goes off. Then a bomb went off, and everyone–Chalk and Hay included–said Hay! we don’t know whether to call it good grief or bad grief.

Like I know Charlie would have a cow if Lucy jumped over the hay diddle diddle.

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Nailed precursors of empty foghorns frittered away their apple-a-day until the doctors went out of business.

Fog hats, on the other hand, footed the bill for a neck of pheasants in full throat with the day of deliberate deliberations coming regarding the mess in the courtyard, but the mess in the barnyard was left undiscovered until the country of travelers’ bourns bore fruit of the next generation. Migrations were up for grabs, but the gauntlets gathered garlands and laurels of canyons in their mighty fists, and furious boughs and frivolous cows emerged from their long winter of ecstasy with their dignity intact but their honor in tatters–according to the zebras, that is–but the optometrists had been delayed at the border, so one cannot judge too harshly.

Making amends brought amens to a close, and the tailor’s closed clothes closet bespoke for no one.

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More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.