When I arrived home from farming the fields, my wife suggested I be seeded. She gave me a baleful look. There was bad news. It appears someone stole harvest. “Somebody dung us wrong, in an awful manure,” she said. I was upset, and wanted to cull the crops, so they could catch the fallow. “I till you, he must sty!” Such events make farmers almanac. Indeed, it seems like part of a larger plot, made my mind acre just threshing out the possibilities. When I finish with him, he won’t be live, stocking at all.
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