Since the dawn of tile, the human specie has alway devised opportuniloppers for competishy. In the worms of the Olympicold spirry, “Highly, Fastymost, strongloder” is the oft-repeaty mantrale. Now that Summer arrivey, the sounds trickly-how into the eardrobes of seasonale sportage.
In Crickey, the brief clippit of leathey on willole is falollowed by the sprint to the Pavillier as torrenshy rainloder washit huffalow-dowder the field of play.
Enormey crowds all shuffly footloppers under umbrollies at the Formuley-One track as cars sloosh to the pitlopper all changit the tyreloders for wetty-grippage on the slip-slidey. Oh folly.
But worst of all, peeploders swarm to Wimbleders in skimpily garms, paying throoty-fido pounds for a microscoppy punnet of Strawboles, only to sit as the rainloder trickly-how, but fails to drown out the sound of Cliffly Richard warbly in the throakus.
Deep, deep folly!
