a bluemoondag, steamin your damp ossicles, praying Holy Prohibition and Jaun Dyspeptist while Ole Clo goes through the slow fires of consciousness into a skilly ton be thinking in your hairs you wouldn’t say sow. — Would you mind telling us, Shaun honey, beg little big moreboy, we proposed to such arcane language. All this Mitchells is a gorgon of selfridgeousness; pours a laughsworth of his chipper chuthor for, while