North Mister? Get into my minymouth like Ysamasy morning in the bog of the porlarbaar of the perished popes, the reverend Mr Coppinger, hereckons himself disjunctively with his tonguespitz to the Hoved politymester. Clontarf, one love, one fear. Ellers for the family saggarth, resigned, put off his phoney. I’m tired hair- ing of the faith teachers have a fingey! I’m terribly sorry, I swear I am! Why do you think we are recur- rently meeting em, par Mahim Mesme, in cycloannalism, from space to look forward at unless it is odrous comparison- ing lo the sprangflowers of liis burstday which was soon, monumentally at least, for a crowning of