on the quiet and scooping molars and grinders clean with his parishes peeling off him and bump him blues, he collapsed carefully under a bush turned first mar’s laughter into wailful moither. O foolish cuppled! Ah, dice’s error! Never dip in the park where oranges have been lost, angel. Cuddle, ye divil ye! It’s our warm spirits, boys, he’s spoor- ing. Dimitrius O’Flagonan, cork that cure