The Times

Thou, has not the pleasure to impress upon thee of a sky blue tattered lace bonnet. Yet in this era, im itching to sport my new head-gear, my new brown crisp Fedora. Nor have thee, beguiled thy succulent redolences. Yet in this era, your sexual sensuality is starting to wet my palates. Hence, thy locks appear as golden threads in the morning light of day. Yet, today my black girl curls is poppin. So, I'll sit back in the sun and pour thou a ice-cold glass of, Old English 800.