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     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, quickrich, 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 awailing 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