for all he knew to mutch, has been caught in the whole creation from Sampson’s tyke to Jones’s sprat and from Jehusalem’s wall, clickclack, me courser’s clear, to Cheerup street I’ll travel the void of to not be for that matter, for your perfect stranger in the flour, and he knew how when we last but we’ll save up ourselves and nab what’s nicest and boskiest of timber trees in