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The text
Lowly, longly a wail went forth. Pure Yawn lay low. On the

mead of the hillock lay, heartsoul dormant mid shadowed land-

shape, brief wallet to his side, and arm loose, by his staff of citron

briar, tradition stick-pass-on. His dream monologue was over,

of cause, but his drama parapolylogic had yet to be, affact. Most

distressfully (but, my dear, how successfully!) to wail he did,

his locks of a lucan tinge, quick rich, ripely rippling, unfilleted,

those lashbetasselled lids on the verge of closing time, whiles

ouze of his sidewiseopen mouth the breath of him, evenso

languishing as the princeliest treble treacle or lichee chewchow

purse could buy. Yawn in a semiswoon lay awaiting and (hooh!)

what helpings of honeyful swoothead (phew!), which ear-

piercing dulcitude! As were you suppose to go and push with

your bluntblank pin in hand upinto his fleshasplush cushionettes

of some chubby boybold love of an angel. Hwoah!

When, as the buzzer brings the light brigade, keeping the

home fires burning, so on the churring call themselves came at

him, from the westborders of the eastmidlands, three kings of

three suits and a crowner, from all their cardinal parts, along

the amber way where Brosna's furzy. To lift them they did,

senators four, by the first quaint skreek of the gloaming and

they hopped it up the mountainy molehill, traversing climes

of old times gone by of the days not worth remembering;

inventing some excusethems, any sort, having a sevenply