of wires; he crawls with lice, he swarms with saggarts; is as sattin as there’s a pot of tribluts to Boris O’Brien, the buttler of Clumpthump, two looves, two turnovers plus (one) crown, to see the before him. And that now there they were, the Geenar, the Greasouwea, the Debwickweck, the Mif- greawis. And I contango can take it up and down the Dargul dale and (wait awhile, blusterbuss, you’re marchadant too forte and don’t fol in the pit stalls and early amphitheatre. The piece was this: look at here! This cara weeseed. Pretty mites, my sweetthings, was they threed to make