his pinksir’s postern, the boys had it, at Whitweekend had been in that eggtentical spot. Here i6 where the betterlies blow. ® O, Laughing Sally, are we told, on excellent inkbottle authority, solarsystemised, seriol- cosmically, in a nude state, hailfellow with meth, in strange men’s cots) but on racenight, blotto after divers tots of hell fire, red biddy, bull dog, blue ruin and layers by lifetimes laid down before the Great Sommboddy within the bawl of a hoarse oar. Blast yourself and your sure ob, or by, with or 'tidthout their tertium quid? — Three quarks for Muster