It's the pain of the sprain, and the thought of the rain, combined with the impelling of the pencil that's propelling.
So there really is no telling if the pencil that's propelling has lead us to the waning of the wrist that is spraining.
So sing us the song of the sling Rummo dear, while from Lizzie her black graphite tale we will hear.
And while you're at it dearie, will you answer that old query;
HOW LONG IS A PIECE OF SLING?

Time for my pills.

G ¦¬]