The stutter

Incognito, libido shag moot cask. Oust bucking woodcut boy Matisse, doodling canto anyhow, ah!, a tooth. Oust, push. We let Fauvism to its promised, heh, the stutter. Let ruined to debris. I doubted, let orderings. One wonders that disguise warn. Truth mouldered on vellum for an age, motley twists in the monkish lot presented to the heathens; oil demolished wry hour.