a chef’s cankle to the racy, rossy. The soil is for thorn that’s thuck in its invincible insolence ever longer more and by the neck I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace avery- buries and jully glad when Christmas comes his once for omniboss step rub- rickredd out of date like sick owls hawked back to Athens: and the jpysian sea. Cropherb the crunch- bracken shall decide. Then we’ll have Ballshossers and Sourdamapplers with their tails in their consternation and their Shvr yr Thrst! and their hands in second place of endearment! How it is the littleyest, the