Happiness is Love or Money?
George S. Fullpot wozza very rich manly, so ritchie had big piles and also big piles of money – ten pound notes and twenties and fifties rock n roll he slept with every nightie. He nether wanted for nuthing coz he hab everything. But it was not allah walking the parkinson, sometimes he walked in the street too. One day he walked down on her to the corner of Oxford Street. He was taking in the midday sun in his stride and walked and walked to clear his ears. He thought wot happiness money brings. Then he sort of his sister, Miss Givin, known professionally as Patty.
Miss Givin was sad becoz her hubby had born her flowers – but for Miss Givin the romans was ded. She longed fervor day when hubby wud drink at the pub till 3.0 fm in the mornin, or bead her senseless to show love or belch the alfabet at dinnner. “Hubby, you neber do anythin awful for me anymore. We never stay in, you always phone me and respond to my ebony wimp,” said Miss Givin, sick with happiness.
“Sweetums, it’s only becoz I lub you,” implied Hubby.
“Oh hubby, how cud you?” said Miss Givin, and broke down smiling.
And they limped happily ever after.
