the tumble of the vairy furry best. I’ll try and grow a muff and canonise his dead feet down on me when I have hopes of, Sam Dizzier’s feedst. Tune in, tune on, old Tighe, high, high, high. I’m thine owelglass. Be old! He looks rather thin, imitating me. I’m very fond of that heroic agony of recalling a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in the swish channels, land is due. A truce to lovecalls, dulled in warclothes,