Jackroot

No trace of arrogance coming close to closeout. Intrepid arm movements can't conceal the robotic aspects so time to come clean. . .

Every second or third time there's a surrounding quality that coats your deep dish so faux lip smacking enters the fray. Fear of frying. Self immolation. Meta for genuflection at the altar of adulation.

Like imagined chest bumps, the reality of regroup yourself is no big whoop. Next course, silver plate.
Indulged while jay bee aychd. The shimmy like right now means now. Crunching the pheromaura to a working rhythm plus the highlight film has already streamed. Then comes salad spuds instead of tossed.

That swoosh sound the door closer makes is in the air so the ceremonies may be closing. Or it could be the sound of the plums elevating.