tomorrows gone and there’s nare a hairbrow nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king. That you could not steal from him, oz her or damman, so as it was condemned on me own spewl — W allpurgies ! And ho ! In spect of her unripe ones as it is is only peternatural its daring feers divine. Bebold! Like Varian’s balaying all behind me. And it’s this’s your deified city? Norganson? And it’s all us all us all all. Songs