ween, ween, ween . . . and he ate some ween . . . and he was happy, happy, happy, that he ate some ween. we we were strolling down the mean streets of department controlled dwellings, when i stumbled across this flyer that read: oh the mighty boognish will be coming down the mountain girl while tickets float on winged monkees to be stuck upon your tongue like paper candy drops of liquid brown.
i would like to start off with a basket of chips, and then move on to the pollo asado taco.