This Lady of GaGa! The feelings inside me are incredulous. Her stairs don’t have attainability to the attic. Cannot reach the garret.
But what’s next for the small bird of cuckoo? Not a bird of prey — this leader in the outre fashion method. (“Exaggerated Fashion.”)
She flanks the Fuck-Me Pumps (Salmon Color) if she expects to be taken seriously as tussock fashion. A shield of fish.
Still, GaGa culture seeps from every hole. To inspect a GaGa photograph is to inspect some handsome veal. Its substance is innovative. Not unlike my intestines after hearing the song of GaGa. (Ha ha — just having some exact fun with you.)
Seriously, what to consist of? Leggings to papaya inside a frothy ball? And foaming? WTF?
Now we know.
Advance the alienation of real-life ghost product (suit divers). GaGa…check. Further estrangement producing a frogman suit — made from prize-winning flues of wattle. Now we have translucent GaGa. To advance the alienation of real-life products — her diaphanous costume.
It’s not meat curtains for me — you dwell on my threshold, GaGa. Rikoshetiruet out of the box.
GaGa, no less starlet than tender yeast-eaglet.
Very great.
