The Surrealist Compliment Generator

To lurch queasily on the radiated styles of three monks passing cups. Interestingly, no one came to feel the dishwasher's salad dressing except the bishop. Brown trees scrape wads of chalk from the cieling of the Sistine chapel, scattering fish eyes and mice on to the heads of the tourists milling below. Woof, woof, said the moustache.