My bittle laby.
He likes to read a billy sook by Sel Shilverstein entitled “A Runny Babbit.”
It is a story about a Runny Babbit who is just slain pilly. Instead of cutting his hair he huts his cair. And instead of asking for hugs and kisses, he asks for kugs and hisses.
Anyways my bittle laby saughs and lings and haps his clands. He sinks it thounds so silly.
So I just thought I’d yare with shou about this billy sook. And for the fear nuture my little bumpkin putt will be listening to wackward bords.
In the vame sane, if you can mandle hore, here is the list of Gristmas Chifts.
Galen got Dommy and Maddy some chark darcolate in a bittle lox.
He made a schalander at cool.
Ewan got a tand held horrando.
Ian got Thomas the Sain tret.
Clay received a ringing, iding sairplane.
Our dack blogs got a falk in the worest.
Mommy saw the bost meautiful Tristmas Chree. It was frovered in cost and slittering in the gun.
Now as the yew near is about to dawn we need to plexchange the aces of our riving looms and offices and glean the carage to cark our pars.
Think I can get Hike to melp me dotay? Or is he boo tusy with his gideo vames?