Nascent wheezes of nasal battles, bringing in the big guns, would have sunk the Bismarck, the torero of the seas, but congestion proved fatal so the honor passed to the Hood.
Crescent croissants beleaguered the little leaguers half a league onward toward the Battle of Hasty Pudding a little too hastily. Hastings for dessert, but only if you finish both pounds of your steak. Streaks of slaked shrikes belted out the national anthem of zebras, but they forgot half the words.
The wordless windlass took the lass by surprise, so she lashed the tarp tighter to the lighter bulkhead, sulkily slinking toward Bethlehem, PA–being no slouch–nor none that matters anyway.
Honored, I’m sure, the suit of armor hot dogs didn’t fare too well at the faire of wiener dog races–especially once the mustard and buns appeared. Surprised, I’m sure!