By the best lessons ever learned, did I come to be a proficient labourer, probably. But there was a bleeding moonlight, that arched over the sticks of most nights, and that was bloody fags and I smoked them and wished to stop, and didn't care how. So, on this injustice of erasure, this childish pandering to British blubbering, there was a serious and frank admission, each time a rollie was smoked by these lips, each time a golden nugget was placed to the mouth, every time a biffa caused breathing to leave the lungs funny, then we would have to be late to the woods, and find each of us verily leaning towards the failure of that old bloody attempt, to be better in the face of an enemy.
The drab seeds of the frantically wrenched personalities, the replaced and replenished the trees and bushes and thirty years later, the scene was not so desperate. But by loving was safest, by summer was rainiest, by watching the clubhouse of the builders we raised this message, this personal message, that reached out and faced itchy wastelands, and did all this work for that one master, the one who shall needs die.
Most would have caught on that it's okay to write like this, provided you have someone to kill. And for now, the final message is, that the director of this passage is one you have realised kept personal the final message, and perhaps once, perhaps twice, perhaps more throughout the day, the director is backing the future, to know that all is forgiven, all is settled, and everything is fine. It's all good.