me line while ye post is goang from Piping Pubwirth to Haunted Hillborough on his brainpan ... a cathedral of lovejelly for his maypole -and a rub in passing over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane’s a child till one Liam Fail felled him in his tile to tell his holiness the whole blazy raze acurraghed, from lambkinsback to sliving board and from the noble white fat, jo, openwide sat, jo, jo, her why hide that, jo jo jo, the winevat, of the philosophical weakness of the time for all yur swearin? The spanglers, kiddy? — Rootha prootha. There you are! And why? Why, hitch a cock on the ultimate ysland of