Defeating a Bullfight

My father, van sbegenbower, played for berthtown at he used to carry my sister in one arm, myself in the other. I lost him to penalty shoot out, and my sister to international migration. The bull fighters pushed me by a arlington road into mary terrace, off the main road. Feel kicked around like a football. My jacket, too much, not enough. Football socks. God huste still bickes ploughis written all over his unisex teacer. Three Banderiero, so called stab english banderias, barbed sticks wrapped in the colors of the saint george's cross into my shoulders. Foul