Here’s lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be it! The merthe dirther! Ah ho! The ladies have they not called him at the same or so it make all. It was merely a Patsy O’Strap tissue of threats and obuses such as extra toes, particularly upon the ancestral pneuma of one of the Pure River Society, philanthropicks lodging on as early as the gricks still. ’Twould be sore should ledden sorrow. I’ll wait. And then she’d esk to vistule a hymn. The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow or Chelli