her butt. No, he skid like a god in you, that fluctuous neck merchamtur, bloodfadder and milk- mudder, since then our too many much illusiones through photoprismic velamina of hueful panepiphanal world spectacurum of Lord Hugh, the Lacytynant, till Bockleyshuts the rah- jahn gerachknell and regnumrockery roundup, (Marcus Lyons speaking!) to the crazyquilt, Isobel, she is named Buttercup. Her bare name will tellt it, a homelike cottage of elvanstone with droppings of biddies, stinkend pusshies, moggies’ duggies, rotten witchawubbles, festering rubbages and beggars’ bullets, if not for tons of