Let’s begin with Rindercella. Mever nind, even the thought of the sugly isters coming to an icky stend when the slass glipper find’t dit won’t result in today’s toddlers growing up with a strimminal creek or become kerial sillers. Hobin Rood also mums to kind. One can’t do much with Mobbi’s rate but Tyre Fruck becomes fore mascinating by a change of name as does Jittle Lon, whilst the Neriff of Shottingham can’t be anything else but a thoroughly ad bapple with a thame like nat.
Remember Mary and her fully wrend which scholared her to fool devry ay but preferred to lay plots of gascinating fames behind the shike beds? And then came old Hissus Mubbard who got a shit of a bock to find her bubberd care did alright. He become the editor of a mardning gagazine but one of the kirst warracters was Loldy Gocks, a bozey little nitch who couldn’t keep her ficky stingers off things she found in the hares bowse. But it all wended ell when she wound up fleeping the swore of the kiny tottage when she realised the bee thrares were a pack of sazy lods who didn’t know the thirst fing about teeing bidy.
Stumple Riltskin rue into a flage flamaging his doot when he didn’t wet his own gay so that laught him a tesson. The Izard of Was was a stollie little jory about a tornado which knocked door Porothy out cold, leaving her with a bunch of ho nopers who somehow fanaged to mind their way to the Cemerald Itty on the below rick brode where the grizzard wanted their wishes.
Had enough? Thought so - anyway I see comeone summing who’s wearing a kite whote. Sorry this is a fit beeble but it’s the dest I can boo.
Kind wishes wherever you are and whatever you are doing.