Once a polly tito, there in the woodbold with all the leafy clutter canopold abovely skyhole, there I saw a sparrow flighty wing, from one twigger in the dusk, flappy feather there. Oh yes.
Oh yes, the twigger in the dusky moonflit night, i remember the very thingalo.
I remembold the very thing, all sing in their throakers, very there, up in the moonflit duskbode, and having a gleam in the eyehole. Even raining, wet damp and fold it in the cloth, still heart fallolops in the spring.
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