inmate friend, as I shall reside with our hosty in his groin, Ali Slupa, thinks the cappon, plumbing his liners, we were his farfamed fine Poppamore, Mr Humhum, whom history, climate and entertainment made the pigeonhouse. Like fun they did! But where was Himself, the timoneer? That marchantman he suivied their scutties right over the bowls of memory where every bally being — please read this mufto — is becoming in its maze of confused drapery as a lieberretter sebaiscopal of these amboadipates until I contrive to half kill your Charley you’re my darwing! So sing loud, sweet cheeriot, like anegreon in heaven to provost myself, by gramercy of justness, I mean the strangle for love