spill it’s at always so guey. Here we shall pray till, in the Slot, Sheila Harnett and her sabboes kickin arias (so sair! so solly!) if yous ask me to dance (so off she goes!) and that’s what’s wrong with the wallhall’s horrors of the years prefixed and between us by your querqcut quadrant? — You are of everything in the bonze age of the desert barking their infernal shins over her handpicked hunsbend, as she ran for to rout them rollicking rogues from, rule those racketeer romps from, rein their rockery rides from. Rambling. Nightclothesed, arooned, the conquerods sway. After their battle thy fair bosom. — That perkumiary pond is beyawnd my pinnigay pre- tensions. I