Icicle.
Icicle, Icicle,
I want to pick my icicle,
I want to pick my ice,
I want to pick my icicle,
I want to pick it when I like.
I want to pick my icicle,
I want to pick my ice,
I want to pick my icicle,
I want to pick it when I like.
Under the twin Suns of Scotland, a remnant from the Porridge Wars of twelfth dotice dimension vertice nought one, where Genghis McCann fought William Wallace and Gromit for the rights to cold Porridge distribution, stirred by the ice spurtle of Garthamlock, itself hewn from ice collected from the Straits of Raith.
I shall dance tonight, and celebrate the Gortith of Vure by drinking Xol from the chilled stomach of the forty eighth Kram of Torrance, and feasting on the roast heid of Auchter Muchty.
Just another typical Scottish Winter night.
I shall dance tonight, and celebrate the Gortith of Vure by drinking Xol from the chilled stomach of the forty eighth Kram of Torrance, and feasting on the roast heid of Auchter Muchty.
Just another typical Scottish Winter night.
posted by Sans Pantaloons at 9:51 AM
4 Comments:
You wrote "William Wallace and Gromit"... hee hee hee!!! I like your icicles! :)
Jenn, thanks! They aren't my real icicles, they are my test icicles.
Ah Queen Goes Christmas with help from Sans. :)
Sushi, you are a Man of taste!
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