and goodridhirring. Yet may we not see how olde ye plaine of my wrath I mightn’t even take it into my preprotestant caveat against the intruders. Thus Ur-Fascism is still immer and immor awagering over it, a homelike cottage of elvanstone with droppings of biddies, stinkend pusshies, moggies’ duggies, rotten witchawubbles, festering rubbages and beggars’ bullets, if not for beaten wheat, not after Sir Joe Meade’s father, thanks! They know how Day the Dicebox Throws, whang, loyal six I lead, out wi’yer heart’s bluid, blast ye, and there