The factory floor is full of frugal framed fartwork.
Is this futile frippery?
My fickle fingers of fate feel frisky but my flat feet are freezing.
I am fading fast.
Is this faddy fun or a frightful failure?
Feast or famine?
Am I flogging a dead filly?
Should I return to flocculence?
I'm in a flap, folks, so please feel free to flow
with frank feedback in the medium of F.
Fanks for flying by.
Now, who's for a fabulous fondant fancy?