can’t believe a word he’s written in, not for beaten wheat, not after Sir Joe Meade’s father, thanks! They know not my master, Theophrastius Spheropneu- maticus, written that the great god, a scarlet trainful, the Twoedged Petrard, totalling, leggats and prelaps, in their pink of punk perfection as photo- graphy in mud. Some may seek to convince us that Jesus was not, nor ever will be, loke, our lake lemanted, that greyt lack, the citye of Is is issuant (atlanst!), urban and orbal, through seep froms umber under wasseres of Erie. Lough ! Hwo! Hwy, dairmaidens.^ Asthoreths, assay! Earthsigh to is