...pleasure before Hey, that your velour vox?  
For the poet art administrator, hissy fits of modesty are unimpressive, swept up and vacuumed off each cowpoke. 
 
A year of taxes and you’re a neo-accepter into excess, making, being smithereens since and before the temporal.  
 
Fits of pique are objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as our ideology-swept rhetoric of double quotes administrating burgeons. Omniscience is semi-officially sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes and custodians.  
 
[w John W]