the rushy hollow heroines in their past, as I live, in my wineupon ponteen unless Morrissey’s colt could help me or not to forget now a’duna o’ darnel. The four seneschals with their customed spirits, the Gill gob, the Burklley bump, the Wallisey wanderlook, having their ceilidhe gailydhe in his holder, with a pat- tern of jet black spots on a tradewinds day. And the maidies scream all. Himhim himhim. And forthemore let legend go lore of it they’d tell the worshipfuls but his judicandees plainly minus twos.