Random Factor... Like A Tractor

First topic message reminder :

Random factor, like a tractor...
by luckless_pedestrian on Sat 28 May 2011, 5:06 pm

Hello. Following its roaring success on the old 606 (winner of six Luckies*) I thought I'd provide a space on 606v2 for you to post any irrelevant little things you fancy sharing.

I'll start: I've always had trouble with the line 'Love grows where my Rosemary goes.' If they'd chosen another name like Anne or Susan there'd be no problem, but rosemary's a herb so it could be 'Love goes where my rosemary grows.'

"now Miss Ross, welcome to the advanced driver's course, we'll start with an oral examination...That's not what I m...m...meant M...Miss...Ro..."

Stop tickling my fancy!

Oh Lilly white small
From where did you come
With the wind so rough
And so cold it's shout
How did you venture out
Through all the snow
There's no other little flower
To see in the world.

You have a mantle
Over your white dress
And a most faithful way
Of bowing your head
There's no wind or snow
Or wizard or witch
Who'd dare to hurt
Lilly white small.

Little white flower, why do you tremble so?
It's only old Jack and his icy breath, you know.

Too many menthol chewing gums?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFpzB45Aksw

Feicin Monkeys everywhere. Swinging from lampshades and wrecking the place. And they're playin banjos. Badly

Really pishes me off that.

Learn your craft before you even dare play for me.

So we pay you peanuts. Its no excuse for that din.
Not to mention the cost of replacement, long-lasting, light-bulbs. Desist! Leave! Now.

OK. The cute one can stay. I love her eyes. And her beard.

Typing, whilst mid-REM, brings up all sorts of tings, I find.

Dont you?

WOW, thats out there Gibbo

Creative writing - her eyes were like toffee apples gleaming in the cheap neon of a travelling fair.

Her voice was like that noise a truck makes when it's reversing.

Her legs were long like the M1

Here kiss was firm like a bank or a solicitors.

She was bare like a shaven peach with a bruise for the brown bit.

Her touch was light like low-fat mayonnaise.

She moaned like a sow on heat

She held my hand like a prison holds convicted criminals.

She had the hips of a hoolahoop champion and was as agile as a rat.

My mouth was dry like a recovering alcoholic.

She was willowy like a young alder tree.

She was prompt, like a nudge.

She had gravitas, and it looked big whatever she wore.

Her voice was low, like my opinion of her.

She had a filthy mind and knickers to match.

She was a slut, like my mum.

She was a mum, like my slut.

Her heels were high, as was she.

She was a scarlet lady, well, her eyes were bloodshot.

She had a mangy old Cat that had seen better days.

Her breast heaved, whilst the other sagged.

She smelt of roses that had died weeks ago.

She moaned slightly under his touch, her arthritis was flaring up again.

When she walked in to the room, he was lost for words.

As he thrust deep inside her, she thought she might explode. The all you can eat buffet at the Shezan suddenly seemed to have been a mistake.

He bent her over, in the hope that the blood would rush to her head and she'd pass out.

As he saw her undress he could not contain himself. He rose quickly to his feet, but failed to make it to the toilet in time.

She flicked her hair the way a cow flicks its tail to shake off a fly.

She was throbbing and glistened with the exertion of it all, but the jam jar lid would not budge.

She reached down and caressed his Winkle, which remained resolutely flaccid.

It was then that passion over ruled her usually restrained personality. The traumatised shop assistant would later tell the Police she'd been put off cucumber for life.

As the police led her away from the farm, the poor stallion lay shuddering in his stable.

She'd came around on the floor. Her clothes were in shreds. She was dazed, confused, feeling like she'd been in a boxing match and with a strange man at that very moment using her toilet. All in all it had been a much better night than she had anticipated.

Im writing all this down. I need quality input. Havent had a shhhhhag in years. Sheer Welsh love-poetry. Genius. Tanks.

That's all we've been doing, Gibbo - translating famous old Welsh poems. Like this one:

'Calennig i mi, calennig i'r ffon.'

Which translates as: the bigger the cushion, the sweeter the pushin'.

https://youtu.be/GzsWuqNlLK4

Her tread was heavy, as was his heart.

She was as nubile as Tesco value chicken breasts (buy one get one free)

She was canny like a can of dog food.

I'm not saying she was loose, but the Priest looked forward to her confessions.

She had eyes like a potato.

It put him in mind of a gutted trout, then he noticed the smell.