Tom smells the sacred, fragrant breeze.
Tom fears the wind blow. Throws he, young tom, the wind through a jet propelled labor, diesel expenditus bursting in air, gave proof through his fright, that Hay’s hit the hey whas’ this har whiskey Rebellion, so tom upped the uppers to 110 proof– fifty times juiced the speed of light!
Tom through six worm holes emerges old grandad!
No cause of subtle sputter hissing sky subterfuge.
Spam of Human Affection 
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