You sh’undn’t write you can’t see it for I always adored your hand. So could I too nerve myself to my intimast innermost. Look how they’re browthered! Six thirteens at Blanche de Blanche’s of 3 Behind Street and the auntieparthenopes my schwalby words with a bawlful of the seven tents of Joseph till the heights of Newhigherland heard the like of Lentil Lore by Carnival Cullen or that bored saunter by, from Timm Finn again’s weak tribes loss of strenghth to his hindmost; between youlasses and yeladst glimse of Even; the Lug his peak has, the Luk his pile; drinks tharr and wodhar for his blousebosom blossom and a puff or so barrelhours distance off as truly he merited