Scribbledehobbles are ^|aat bent on^a| their pensums^|a, reading nails & biting lips^a|. Trifid tongue ^|aothers woo & work for^{a| |x}the backslapper gladhander^x| and dove without gall ^|aand she whose mind's a jackdaw's nest of ^|btearing up letters she never wrote^{b| |b}for when her hair's in a queer mood^b|a| to solve dulcarnon's ^|adire ^|bhorned twohornheaded^b|a| dilemma what stumped bold Alexander and drove him to pulfer turnips. But^|a, my hat,^a| what a world of weariness is theirs ^|awaiting to hear their own mistakes^a|! For how many guildens would one walk now to to the pillar? For one hundred? For one hundred's thousands? And to what will't all serve them in an after ^|areeraw^a|
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world. Will it make of one a good milker ^|ahaving been brought up on superlatives^a|? Will he go away ^|ain a peajacket^a| and not be silly? Or where will he find funds to smoke a whole box of matches per day? Or if she makes an earth of heaven will she lilt Barney take me home again? As long as Una reads serials in a bummeltrain ^|awith a lot of unexciting trousers about^{a| |a}it is wholly probable that the^{a| |a}holy parable^a| the worst at least at last may happen,
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such as go to meet Mary, miss Mamy & marryº Meg. Why ask her ^|aor Tossy Madden^a| sense from what she's read since every annual has its own aroma? Quid vobis videtur And even the remembering a tree is too beautiful for her to listen. Small blame to her then if she shook her shoe off at geography class, doing rivers of India, with a whisper of wilfulove heard round the world.