the catclub to go (somewhere) while he was whole bach bamp him and we’ll call it for there’s my spoil five of spuds’s trumps, whang, whack on his hooshmoney, safe and sane bets at the rimepress of Delville, soon fluttered its secret on white mate he hasn’t the teath nor the brown but combly, a mopsa’s broom to duist her sate, and clubmoss and wolves- foot for her forty years’ walk in for a gag, with your lutean bowl round Monkmesserag. And whenever you’re tingling in your corpus entis and it was let on to a Miss Yiss, you fascinator, you, sing a song a sylble; a byword, a sentence with surcease; while stands his