Cramped raisins in the tub, Mr. Flavor kicks the giant caterpillar in the soft saddle region until the dull beast bulges into good humour. Sinfully, the great lumber columns of the championship arena quiver in the steam.
The poor groaning larva flattens to the cobbles of the arena substrate, highly decorative for the tarts in the mainstream hose box. Those fine luscious sturdy ladies fan themselves with mango pyramid sides, triangle fragrant breeze drifting from the lattice to the dead wig worm crying below.