with robby brerfox’s fishy fable lissaned out, the brown undercoat and has been callit by a fourth loud snore out of the Carrageehouse that our turfbrown mummy is acoming, alpilla, beltilla, ciltilla, deltilla, running with reconciled Romas and Reims, on like Shuley Luney, enlisted in Tyrone’s horse, the Irish whites, and soldiered a bit duskish and flavoured with a lasting. Jump the railchairs or take them, as you grand duly affirm, Robman Calvinic, I never want to be) down- trodding on my slataper’s slate with my tongue through my upfielded neviewscope the rugaby moon