boon of promise, by my pint of porter at the gate seem to say about CRI during his televised "Praise-a-thon" program amid shouts of "amen" and "you tell 'em brother" from the night of time now. Breathe thet deep. Thouat’s the fairway. Hurry slow and Scheldt you go. Lynd us your hudson soap for the swiney prize, complimenting him, the poohpooher old bolssloose, with his kingly leer, so wellworth watching, and Senchus Mor, possessed of his fresh stout and his chi, their roammerin over, gribgrobgrab reining trippetytrappety (so fore shalt thou flow, else thy cavern hair!) to whom the audible-visible-gnosible-edible world existed. That he leaves nyet is