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Nary a sequendalin night shift gleeped from his mothers bosom, but Bartholomew had no prendig but to unleash the gasping echoes of sound his violin could farshake. Safoondering the galumptuous skunks with their narshal war machinery, the battle for snakewood had begun. Blisseming tripples like sorrow bound arrows glasped niffily towards the den of his secundering. Sebastian the skunk and Bartholomew the spider met in the field of battle as blood hungry warriors, despite having once been brothers. Little did the tancankerous birds hold privy, but enclapsed within each blorp of dew atop each gristle of grass was enough magical poison to steer the nardiest of ships off its course and into foul waters. Behooving the double-lemon bulls of Yardley, all seventeen spirits of the trees gasped in shock as the very ground all satisfied themself to say stands sturdy began to melt into a puzzle of time. Truth be told not even the leaf of the whistlefoot remembers the last cry of the cardinal bird uffered on that dandastardly day. Not one leaf, but that which fell again come Autumn.