ewe wore a woolen mini skirt with thighs as sheer as indigenous mountains raised high upon tilted pedestals charcoal straps protecting the achilles' tendon yet exposing your callous sole an openness of character denotes your legs' spread creamy latte cinnamon brown the descending collage of popular epidermal displays gives a necessary excuse for corrective bending um...umm...um the mantra echoed in the cavernous recess a hundred eyes blind to what women want uncoordinated media compliments a prolonged discourse nervous flailing of the pointer threatens my tactful approach to criticism as belabored lecturing covers all possible angles except for my seventy-four degrees of bliss afterward you're my heroine without the use of syringes