Phil verDilfer went up the hill for pilfered silver in a flivver, had a will for not paying his bills for what he'd kill for.
A foreign orange tasting like porridge tossed at the door hinge of a storage closet, neighbors found abhorrenge, now in quarengtine.
It's no longer April, bring out your May pole, and get a good spray full of rain by the drainful while you conceive future Capril corns if you go by the eight-months-a-babe rule.
