Published on: 02 January 2025
See this exquisite Walloon game, of kit writing but brief. Take this old whisky to the blond judge who smokes on his inner island, next to the ovoid alcove, where the logs burn in the hearth, which allows him to think about the cænogenesis of the being in question in the ambiguous case heard at Moÿ, in a shambles which, he thinks, diminishes here and there the quality of his work. Prove, handsome judge, that the famous yak sandwich kills. The cramped island, Where the obese mature jury Celebrates the haï volapük, Donkey tied at whist, Take away this disappointed wish. Old coat that I modify: breitschwanz or yak? From Christmas when a hated zephyr dresses me in Würmian ice cubes, I dine on exquisite roast beef with kir à l’ay d’âge mature & cætera! Fiery, I intoxicate the squaw with a pack of beautiful zythum. Ketch, yawl, brand new junk… judge the prices! See the giant brig that I examine near the wharf. Take this old whisky to the blond judge who smokes. Cover the tail of the taxi car with the fakir’s pajamas. Ambiguous voice of a heart that, to the zephyr, prefers bowls of kiwis. My poor stiff zebu shocks two
