| * I ain't faking this, I ain't faking * why doesn't the coulomb friction singe your clothes? ! | |
| - What a singe? | |
| About to singe me fuckin' hair again! | |
| Ain't that enough to singe your ass! | |
| Blow on it, baby, before you singe your tongue. | |
| * I ain't faking this, I ain't faking * why doesn't the coulomb friction singe your clothes? ! | |
| - What a singe? | |
| About to singe me fuckin' hair again! | |
| Ain't that enough to singe your ass! | |
| Blow on it, baby, before you singe your tongue. | |
| I love the hot tip of my soldering iron as it liquefies metal and singes the wires... | |
| Now, get these petits singes off from me! | |
| The salt of his sweat singes my wounds. | |
| There's no singes, bro. | |
| Your hair singes... but you can't reach for your head 'cause your hands are gone. | |
| I love the hot tip of my soldering iron as it liquefies metal and singes the wires... | |
| Now, get these petits singes off from me! | |
| The salt of his sweat singes my wounds. | |
| There's no singes, bro. | |
| Your hair singes... but you can't reach for your head 'cause your hands are gone. | |
| "And he saw "that the flames did not harm their bodies, nor was a hair of their heads singed, and there was no smell of fire upon them." | |
| "a wheel of gloop-smothered dough, singed at the rim. | |
| "and the King saw that the fire had not harmed their bodies, "nor was a hair of their heads singed. | |
| - I just got a little singed. | |
| - Kwan? He works the hothouses, he's never singed a Trancer in his life. | |
| "On a gridiron, like St. Lawrence... "like St. Vincent... "they wished to roast me, singeing the hairs on my chest... | |
| - Fine. Except the flames of Lucifer keep singeing our back bumper as we drive through this hellish, cheese-infested wasteland. | |
| - Without singeing the carpet. | |
| And if thou prate of mountains let them throw millions of acres on us, till our ground singeing his pate against the burning zone make Ossa like a wart. | |
| And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw millions of acres on us, till our ground, singeing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart! | |
| "And he saw "that the flames did not harm their bodies, nor was a hair of their heads singed, and there was no smell of fire upon them." | |
| "a wheel of gloop-smothered dough, singed at the rim. | |
| "and the King saw that the fire had not harmed their bodies, "nor was a hair of their heads singed. | |
| - I just got a little singed. | |
| - Kwan? He works the hothouses, he's never singed a Trancer in his life. | |
| "On a gridiron, like St. Lawrence... "like St. Vincent... "they wished to roast me, singeing the hairs on my chest... | |
| - Fine. Except the flames of Lucifer keep singeing our back bumper as we drive through this hellish, cheese-infested wasteland. | |
| - Without singeing the carpet. | |
| And if thou prate of mountains let them throw millions of acres on us, till our ground singeing his pate against the burning zone make Ossa like a wart. | |
| And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw millions of acres on us, till our ground, singeing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart! | |
