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Why, they might be Babau and Momie! Yipyip! To pan! To
pan! To tinpinnypan. All folly me yap to Curlew! Give us a pin
for her and we'll call it a tossup. Can you reverse positions?
Lets have a fuchu all round, courting cousins! Quuck, the duck
of a woman for quack, the drake of a man, her little live apples
for Leas and love potients for Leos, the next beast king. Put
me down for all ringside seats. I can feel you being corrupted.
Recoil. I can see you sprouting scruples. Get back. And as
he's boiling with water I'll light your pyre. Turn about, skeezy
Sammy, out of metaphor, till we feel are you still tropeful
of popetry. Told you so. If you doubt of his love of darearing
his feelings you'll very much hurt for mishmash mastufractured
on europe you can read off the tail of his. Rip ripper rippest and
jac jac jac. Dwell on that, my hero and lander! That's the side
that appeals to em, the wring wrong way to wright woman. Shuck
her! Let him! What he's good for. Shuck her more! Let him
again! All she wants! Could you wheedle a staveling encore out
of your imitationer's jubalharp, hey, Mr Jinglejoys? Congrega-
tional singing. Rota rota ran the pagoda con dio in capo ed il dia-
volo in coda. Many a diva devoucha saw her Dauber Dan at the
priesty pagoda Rota ran. Uck! He's so sedulous to singe always
if prumpted, the mirthprovoker! Grunt unto us, I pray, your fore-
boden article in our own deas dockandoilish introducing the
death of Nelson with coloraturas! Coraio, fra! And I'll string
second to harmanize. My loaf and pottage neaheaheahear Ro-
chelle. With your dumpsey diddely dumpsey die, fiddeley fa.
Diavoloh! Or come on, schoolcolours, and we'll scrap, rug and
mat and then be as chummy as two bashed spuds. Bitrial bay
holmgang or betrayal buy jury. Attaboy! Fee gate has Heenan
hoity, mind uncle Hare? What, sir? Poss, myster? Acheve! Thou,
thou! What say ye? Taurus periculosus, morbus pedeiculosus.
Miserere mei in miseribilibus! There's uval lavguage for you! The
tower is precluded, the mob's in her petticoats; Mr R. E. Meehan
is in misery with his billyboots. Begob, there's not so much
green in his Ireland's eye! Sweet fellow ovocal, he stones out of
stune. But he could be near a colonel with a voice like that. The