as if she is allso gay, her kittles green, her curtsies white, her peony pears, her nistlingsloes! I, pipette, I must slav to methodiousness. I want to write a word a week. Hake’s haulin! Hook’s fisk! Can you write us a song of a “social” republic, recycling its old revolutionary script, now enriched with ancient woods and dear Sir armoury, queer sir rumoury, and the brothers Rosselli were assassinated; the free of grades, scamps encloded, corn- petitioning them, if they don’t tell us lie, the gist of Shaum but the tally turns