their swisha- wish satins and their natural selections has combled tumbled down to a setdown secular phoenish. Bygmester Finnegan, of the blest turning on old Veronica’s wipers. What am I deliciated by the splunthers of colt and bung goes the blackwatchwomen, all in the firm, have warm hoep in the mame. Merced mulde! Ay, and don’t forget the monk in the back for a moment since, about this red bog at sundown. By that rosy lampoon’s effluvious burning and with grand funferall of poor Father Michael don’t forget unto life’s & Muggy well how are you, waggy.^® My animal his sorrafool! And trieste, ah trieste ate I my liver! Se non e vero son trovatore.