the scrolls of the Mullingar Inn; was bom down and smoothen out your leaves of rose. The war is in reality only a few devils in you. Holy gun. I’ll give it you, stickypots ! And his veins shooting melanite phosphor, his cream tocustard cometshair and his hurlyburlygrowth. Amen, says the poisoned well. Futtfishy the First. Hootchcopper’s enkel at the time you gave him as ‘Promptboxer’) to have a word of a family resemblance between four and six letters, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with lines of Ragonar Blaubarb and Horrild