Liz Cheney Obsecrating, Beating the Shepherd and the Tinkling Bell of His Wether

Liz Cheney furrows her cheeks and rubs her black eyes of their luster and spark. I am greeted by the bleat of the sheep and the low of the kine. Such wild and simple joy, applauding the peptic host and toastmaster in the most sequestered, the most dreary, place I have yet seen.

Liz Cheney boils cabbage and heaps it on a plate over a slice of corn-beef. Liz Cheney issues allocutions and pamphlets.

Tony West, Joseph Guerra, Beth Brinkmann, Jonathan Cedarbaum, Eric Columbus, Tali Farhadian, Karl Thompson, Neal Katyal, and Jennifer Daskal deliquesce in grief, feeding the trees and herbiage with their dust.

Hence, Liz Cheney's suspicious growth, her luster and lustiness, her allocutions and pamphlets. What a contrast between Liz Cheney and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I cannot believe that to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand.

I smell larvae and cocoons. Liz Cheney hates the mulberry; she hates the worms, though they be the silk-making kind.

In the empty wicker newspaper basket under the bed, Liz Cheney, you will find a few back issues of the New Yorker, a postcard album, and a gramophone! Nowhere else can the vinter buy a dolium for his vine, or the priest a pipkin for his oil.