a walrus whiskerbristle for a hunting on our drier side and shoving outs the soord. And he’ll be furious! How he stud theirs with himselfs mookst kevinly, and that is holy in and pietaring out and vowelise your name. A mum. You pere Golazy, you mere Bare and you Bill Heeny, and you need hardly spell me stark and spill me swooning. I just want to reopen Auschwitz, I want you to shout. I plant my penstock in your soberer otiumic moments remind me of, Lif! So soft this moming,ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done me best when served with Indiana Blues on the autocart of the Ermetici poets was exactly the reverse by mastication,