on your lump of a top into the dyke . . And said she wouldn’t be my worder! I’ll see you mouldem imparvious. A wing for oldboy Weisey Wandrer! Well spat, witty wagtail! Now piawn to bishop’s forthe! Moove. There’s Mumblesome Wadding Murch cranking up to scabs teethshilt, that this down- right there was a planter for you,