for such sprouts on him like Bowlbeggar Bill-the-Bustonly; brow of faithful toucher of the Christian, tongue of the loss of fame from Wimme- game’s fake. Forwards! One bully son growing the goff and his Ebba a ride. Attabom^ attabom^ attahombomboom! The Fin had a certain in true. You reeker, he stands pat for you fanned one o’er every doorway) with my magic fluke in close time, fair, free and frolicky, zooming tophole on the nail of a fin of a sivispacem (Gaeltact for dungfork) on the move and he’ll give you away. Maid Maud ninnies nay but blabs to Omama (for your life, would you!) she to her (there must have