Cycling Down the Lane

(No, this isn’t a computer thing.)

Oh my darling froops and bolallies, come closer and listen to the tale of the bumjous and cloogy woes of Olally Von Clintock. Olally, she of the dandelion eyes and moustache nose, bestrode the mighty velocipede as it whooshed south-southeast down the brumbly country lane. Olally, of the pinwheeblie hat and consternaturlich countenance, brummed a bootful sung and all the flapjous birds spiraled about the sky. For surely, my freeling somebodies, this one’s sluicing wheels spining away in the sun, the puddles spluttering by, the countrariwise onlookers gasping, their mud bespluttered faces crimbling aghast at the speed, the delicious speed, the eyeblinkering speed. Olally Von Clintock vooshed past, darkened spectacles shuttering away the glare of the soonday sun. Yah, no flares gonna blind this one as she futurists past, try to paint this in motion! Can’t. There’s too much. Paint streaks, broad dumps of color, it’s just a child’s fingerpainting spree. And she’s gone. The woes? I lied. There’s none. Cepting all the mournful frolks that cry, weepweepy sob, into their cuticle beers, lampshades, and mountebanks. Yah, these townfrolks are sad. Gonna be crying for a while. Poor slobbers. Wishing they had some speeding time of their very own.

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