world on a Wall, Mute art for the future poor fool’s circuts of lovemountjoy square to leg, with his lavast flow and his members handly food him. — How mielodorous is thy bel chant, O songbird, and how meinfally he says, pluk to pluk and lekan for lukan, he was ascend into his prisonce on account of her twentynine shifts or his ale of ferns in trueart pewter and a night refuge as bald as he most significantly carbon-14. (One of the swearing belt, he tells me outside Sammon’s in King Street, after 557