herds of noses

There is a giant gland on the falling moon, it is commonly called ze nose.
an old man who was tired yet graceful inspected it from his distance of notability. after many days of quiet investigation he concluded his search, with little evidence supporting his initial theory. Though now he has gained knowledge enough to pursue other dreams, noone is really sure about him at all. And nor does any man, of admirable height, care of this old shrew and his ideas, for he is not of the gracened finchlass, as most commoners are.
Ah the gracened finchlass, a touchy subject, to be brief. It flew bearing the direction of the southern wind, to surface against the tide at 3:00 pm last tuesday. No person, of general calamity, understands the finchlass as it's true burdens are hidden by sheaths of cranberry soup. All of this burden seemingly puzzled by its untrue phalacy, contorted into the sand bag named jerkin who claimed to have seen several dancing she-males the night preceeding. An old bag made his way down the trumpet shaft in order to dance with the fastened leeks, though it found none, it danced alone for the night in curious hope of company. Stamp stamp stamp said the giant mushroom, if only i had more beets on my carved wooden steeple, my stamps would not be so misfortuned as to slip through the barricades of Farrow's Folly. Lamp lamp lamp, ramp ramp ramp, camp camp camp. Not one word spoken made any sense though he found comfort in the words anyway, insanity fuels itself and so he goes on being insane all day long, all night long forever and ever and ever. Its just like a love story, but this one came true
heeahahahhahahahaa