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Tipster fret spit.

Tipster Geri regrets pit.

Tipsy, a Jay spit.

Tipsy Ma, off on Aegean of foamy spit.

Tipsy madam, mad Amy, spit.

Tipsy, Mama, Jews ask, “Sid’s disks?” as we jam Amy’s pit.

Tipsy or not, Sis, Nina can insist on Roy’s pit.

Tiramisu, pot, cod, octopus—I mar it.

Tire, drum, murder it.

Tired, no plan, I fret semester Final, ponder it.

Tired—no pot to ponder “it.”

Tired nude, draw a star as a rat’s awarded under it.

Tired, nude, I, Ruby, do basic tests etc. … is a body buried under it?

Tired, nude, we lit a love volatile—wed under it!

Tired nude Tatum stars as rats mutated under it.

“Tired nudes I met in a diadem, and a cadet, are both sure we rush to be rated,” a cad named Aidan itemised under it.

Tired nudes, pale, relapsed under it.

Tired nugget I bit, egg under it.

Tired nut on pop, not under it.

‘Tis a heme meme has it!

‘Tis a heron; or it is a hydrolytic city … Lordy, has it iron ore, has it?

“‘Tis arena fan era: Sit!”

“Tis as if is a sit.

‘Tis burlap: a pal rubs it.

‘Tis but an Irish sin if I finish, Sir, in a tub-sit.

‘Tis I, daft Sal’s last fad, is it?

‘Tis I, is it?

“Tis I submittin’ it, Tim—bus I sit.”

‘Tis I, Vera Ray—a potted ace cadet, to pay a rare visit.

“‘Tis in a can, I’m a damp rub,” I burp, “Madam, in a can I sit!”