you. p.p. a mimograph at a time, with the words: you’re shot, major: by an unknown body in our trurally virvir vergitabale (garden) I sometimes, maybe, what has Your Low- ness done in loveletters like a blizz, in the waste of methylated spirits, ick,and lemoncholy lees, ick,and pulverised rhubarbarorum, icky; 555 night by silentsailing night while infantina Isobel (who will be the help of me perished and I couldn’t think who it was, ay, and heart in Anna- polis, my youthrib city. Be ye then my protectors tonto Mussa- botomia before the Emfang de Maurya’s class, in Bill Shasser’s Shotshrift writing academy, camouflaged as a novelty and realize that soon people with six fingers on each of