The Covenous Four
Little Weasels, weave thier way into a summers kitchen. Lips smack back from these girls, while thier grandfather listens. They talk of trivilties, and all the time with wobbled knees. "Frat away, you little girls, awhile the plot thickens" Tempest cooks, in betwixt the cauldren of the covenous four. What evil wreaks, when weasels squeak above age old floor boards. Written April 9th, 2002 © on Apr 09 2002 12:23 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Little Weasels,..."