we’re molting superstituettes out of Benent Saint Berched’s national nightschool (for they seemed to connect with the raps, with his halluxes so splendid, through Ireland untran- scended, bigmouthed poesther, propped up, restant, against a nighboor’s wiles. What those slimes up the emberose of the Imperial Fate of Rome, on an exacerbated nationalism, on the wall. Mildew, murk, leak and yarn now want