Page 292
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Jump to navigationJump to searchgranyou and Vae Vinctis, if that is what lamoor that of gentle breast rathe is intaken seems circling toward out yondest (it's life that's all chokered by that batch of grim rushers) heaven help his hindmost and, mark mo, if the so greatly displeaced diorems in the Saint Lubbock's Day number of that most improv- ing of roundshows, Spice and Westend Woman (utterly exhausted before publication, indiapepper edition shortly), are for our in- dices, it agins to pear like it, par my fay, and there is no use for your pastripreaching for to cheesse it either or praying fresh fleshblood claspers of young catholick throats on Huggin Green1 to take warning by the prispast, why?, by cows ∵ man, in shirt, is how he is più la gonna è mobile and ∴ they wonet do ut; and, an you could peep inside the cerebralised saucepan of this eer illwinded goodfornobody, you would see in his house of thoughtsam (was you, that is, decontaminated enough to look discarnate) what a jetsam litterage of convolvuli of times lost or strayed, of lands derelict and of tongues laggin too, longa yamsayore, not only that but, search lighting, beached, bashed and beaushelled à la Mer pharahead into faturity, your own convolvulis pickninnig capman would real to jazztfancy the novo takin place of what stale words whilom were woven with and fitted fairly featly for, so; and equally so, the crame of the whole faustian fustian, whether your launer's lightsome or your soulard's schwearmood, it is that, whenas the swiftshut scareyss of our pupilteachertaut duplex will hark back to lark to you symibellically that, though a day be as dense as a decade, no mouth has the might to set a mearbound to the march of a landsmaul,2 in half a sylb, helf a solb, holf a salb on- ward3 the beast of boredom, common sense, lurking gyrographi- cally down inside his loose Eating S.S. collar is gogoing of whisth to you sternly how — Plutonic loveliaks twinnt Platonic yearlings — you must, how, in undivided reawlity draw the line somewhawre) 1 Where Buickly of the Glass and Bellows pumped the Rudge engineral. 2 Matter of Brettaine and brut fierce. 3 Bussmullah, cried Lord Wolsley, how me Aunty Mag'll row!
