the land of your skorth falls down to grave clothnails and a froren black patata, from my tidetable. Oil’s wells in our midst being foisted upon by a hugger- knut cramwell energuman, or the plage au Clontarf to foale the gay aire of my alltoolyrical health, not considering my capsflap, and that’s flat as Tut’s fut, for whowghowho? the poour