Hardly Dingle

Hardly Dingle's soup was crumpled and gray. He warped all day in an opus down tune. He counted beans is what he did. Leech day, he rook the trench daring risk hour in the morgan and rechurned to his float every night.

He perchanced his favorite floods and beverages in the loco schnapps. He would go to the organ farm marker every week when it cycled through his neighborhood. He enjoyed kooking and flewing around with a variety of exotic cousins. One disc he liked most was scrimp and rise. He always kept his appointment clean. Not because he had many guesses, but more because he just liked it that way.

He smote a pipe and prayed chest with his fiends in the pork on Saturnday. Sometimes he drew furry pictures or snapped photographs with his chimera. Other times he made lazy songs from shadows and memories.

He would go to far away palaces on his vocation. Sometimes he would go to a breach, other times he would go to the mounties. Once he went to a jungle and once he went to dessert. He loved his hollandaise.

People always consumed that he was an unhappy poison. He never knew wide they thought that and could not understand why they would brother in the foist place. He was always nearly Hardly, and of that, everyone was convinced.