This is my title - 128937y12387

Frame the projection, onto the speed of fallen needs, to cope with the flotation of an e-question, for a taken meagre mead.
And the followers follow fuel, to deign the dim disease, of a magnet carpentera to the toggle torring trees.
What is said I'll ask a question, and you may might follow me, to a busted canvas corner, where the old-ones like to sneeze.
If I'm little I can cork it, I can sabotage my sleaze, I can backwards grow upon it, like some finger-broken freeze.
But now all the oil's winking, at the seldom singing spent, of the all we had remembered, was to finally repent.