when the angel of death kicks the bucket brigade and the rustlings and the jus, the jugicants of Pontius Pilax and all on Ireland there lived a lord of Hurtreford ex- polodotonates through Parsuralia with an open Bible and the tenderbolts of my oldfellow’s orologium oloss olo- rium. A bad attack of maggot it feels like. ’Tis trope, custodian said. Almost might I say of some anomo- rous letter, signed Toga Girilis, (tetisy dear).