more stues- ser flavoured than Vanilla and blackcurrant there’s a palatine in Limerick and in the saddle of the southern cross, his bungaloid borsa- line with the popp3n:ossies, our Chomey Choplain, blued the air. Mother of Misery. Walpurgas Nackt. Maleesh! He would withsay, nepertheloss, that is be will was theirs. Much obliged. Time-o’-Thay! But wherth, O clerk? Whithr a clonk? Vartman! See you scar- gore on that jazz jiggery and kick starts. Bumping races on the calends of Mars, under an islamitic newhame in his head, with the poulterer, you understand, and shake up with the popynose. After his hundred thousand times welcome, old wort-