Rhymes can rhyme. no dip, sherlock Ideas can stick together. Of course, poems don’t have to rhyme, but that’s what we’re gonna think about. “I go out and shout” is a shush route for a short doubt. ‘Bout rhymes count, stretch out over a lout, gout, pout, mout, stout, and about. Rhyming poems have to be serious, or a treacherous monster will bite you. He watches you take off your clothes… ( ͡ʘ ͜ʖ ͡ʘ) He has astounding bright eyes, but seems to take no interest. And he doesn’t seem to want to land on the sand. You’ve probably noticed that most songs went grey, ’cause I wore it all day. You’ve probably noticed that this shirt used to be red, and you can see my vest fell off. You can write poems that are like dirt for years to come. I’ll keep the bits in this program. And they’re all sitting there… Oh, no. It looks like me not breathing, doesn’t it? *censored* the *censored*, I *censored* *censored* called *censored*. He *censored* me, and I *censored*. head Anyway, here’s the pickled tickled onions. And they’re all sitting in there going: And then they go, “AAAAAAAH!” *tickles my watermark* – Bookaboo, are you okay?
– Go away. – You oka–?
– Go away! I just came to see what’s causing the delay– GO AWAY!!! Really looking forward to the Whizzy Chair Thing™. I’m not coming! – You’re swapping the drumsticks for the drumsticks?
– I’m sorry, Mr. Rosen. Bookaboo, if you don’t get up on stage and do your concert, I’ll tell my mum! *faints* Don’t look at me like that, like I’m some bloody criminal. D’you know I thought that the reason why my dad could speak another language; it was because he had a great grandmother. He said, “Say, woe. Mirth says you’ll note that you’re free not of help. I knew you’re the twat.” It was her… wait for it… SuS
*laughter ensues* Boob! Hah! BUS!?!?!? *yells in flower gardens*