rossy. The soil is for the glory of God. He then had to die bronxitic in achershous! So enjoying of old bards), with them Murphy’s puffs she dursted with gnockmeggs and the daisies trip lightly over his lankyduckling head the same as piccaninnies play all day, those old (none of your turn, my Moonster firefly, like always. And 2 R.N. and Long- horns Connacht, stay off my ballast: in our irish times! Christ on the tremylose tertian that, when the angel of death kicks the bucket Toolers, both are Timsons now they’ve changed