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Porterhouse

The cleft porterhouse merchant moved streamily through the window pestle.
In his plume, a silver dollar.

Soggily, he turned to the riboflavin stew and whistled three ancient
Basque melodies with one hand caressing his heartburn.
Without warning, the aft shell opened wide, spelling orange in trinity
sauce. Owl flakes were everywhere. Rennet pastries strewn along the
wake of the castle mortar.

The porterhouse merchant thought quickly about an antidote.
He leafed sporadically through the nonce pages of a tablet drone,
singing whistfully, while balancing a farthing nodule on his right
toe slit. A whistle broom under the window pestle.

Time stood by a filter pump, spawned by the raw oval curve, mooning beneath
the nuance box, while bargain basement hunters cavil in the guest room,
surrounded by circumspect heather weavils who pick their lymph glands
with a nodal spoon.

And yet none of this could grind the everywhere dotting of the button mist to an absolutely affordable solution.

You might reply that the denizen chest in the cabinet girder atop the
deftly appointed Porterhouse mansion is the answer, but I would probably count your handwarts and refer you to the Prince of Wales whose description
of the green-tufted bird renders all metaphysical conjectures obsolete.
Can it be that celery stalks are hidden along the linked entrails of Forest
Flower the Magnificent.

So what if the titular head of the brine county is not at home?

So why should a garden hose wriggle its granary dustbin for a sermon sandwich?

Porterhouse stood transfixed as he realized the consequences: he had omitted
the garbanzo concentrate from the riboflavin stew, and thus an antidote
was not longer a viable hope. He wept silently into a cardamon goblet and
grieved for the innocence of winter past.