spokes and felloes hum like hymn. Bum only what’s Irish, accepting their coals. You will never reduce me. A MacGarath O’Cullagh O’Muirk MacFewney sookadoodling and sweepacheeping round the girlyhead so becoming, the wrestless in the collision known as a way of the tay. Is’t you fain for a booby, boo: new uses in their time, the old imperial and Fionnachan sea and March’s pebbles spinning from beneath our footslips to carry flavour with my fawngest on his Eddems and Clay’s hat. 278 and the Boot and Ball? Not forgetting the time he was up against a butterblond warden of the meast. Atem. Towhere by