Name is Garlic Toothpaste.

I have got gorilla hands.

Hallowed in undergown quarters.

I ridicule those that pass through time.

I embody Christ consciousness without Jesus and the Deal.

Never stare at this or contemplate that.

Other than that we are all this.

Penguins march. Cocktails tease.

Fathers want to shag their daughters.

Bunkers built to survive the cream.

Labels in stitches , favours curried.

Animals caged and bemused.

Fingers of fudge delivered by horse drawn carriage.

May your kitten shots be annihilated on safari.

Banquets of fresh liver drip onto the dried barleyfield straw.

A soaked picnic rug.

Roling about giggling.

You’re mine, you’re mine.

Tartan eggshell.

There was a moon called Cuthbert.

Never since the string was pulled did magic Jim envy enclosers or still life espousers.

Rocking chair subdividers chart the gravity variance of a plastic globe.

She once slid down a slide and came off the end.  Bump.

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