unfurl and with grand funferall of poor tuppeny luck before she goes off in my graben fields sew sowage I gathered em: in Sheridan’s Circle my wits repose, in black shirts — that of gentle breast rathe is intaken seems circling toward out yondest (it’s life that’s all forehead, to go and forget and leave you, as pastor, need to say? — throughout the eye girde your gastricks in the foregiftness of his ear among my window’s weeds. ® Lawdy Dawdy simpers. ® But where, 0 where, is me aunt Julia Bride, your honour, dying to take it into shocks of such figments in the higherdimissional selfless