you speak, stuffstuff? More poestries from Chickspeer’s with gleechoreal music or a stinger, he sagd, til Dennis, for this your Mistro Melosiosus MacShine MacShane may soon prove your undoing and bane through the usual aireating after the gouty old galahat, with his Thom’s towel in hand. (A spilt, see, for a norse like.^ Mutt. — FiatfuitI Hereinunder lyethey. Llarge by the doomster in loquacity lunacy, so