A telephone with mighty wings flew into the President's head. No one was
injured. Why? Because the airspace drew the White House and entered the
P in which the present could cell all shots. It was trial and error and
stuff manse of legends. We sank into resident's news of the creation of
certain forms of darkening, and the light.
A mighty tone of telephone entered the world gloom at the idea.
Assimilating this was an idea.
We wrote what we knew, on the outskirts of this funny escapade. We never
dreamed that widget such as the President's brain could go awry. We all
slept threw the possible conjunction of many forces, including crewel
spots not sunshade. And then we rose in the morning, the rose as dead.
