f101 Come, smooth of my slate, to the beat of my blosh. With all these gelded ewes jilting about and the thrills and ills of laylock blossoms there's so much more plants than chants for cecilies that I was thinking fairly killing times of putting an end to myself and my malody when I remembered all your |3pupilteacher's3| erringnesses |3in perfection class3|. You sh'u'dn't write you ca'n't if you w'u'dn't pass for underdevelopmented. This is the propper way to say that blank. If it's me chews to swallow all you saidn't you can eat my words for it as sure as there's a key in my kiss. Quick erit faciofacey when we will conjugate together toloseher tomaster tomiss while morrow fans amare hour, verbe de vie and verve to vie, with love ay loved have I on my back spine and does for ever. My intended who I'm throne away on, |3when I slip through my pettigo3| I'll get my decree and take seidens when I'm not ploughed first by some Rolando the Lasso, and flaunt on the flimsyfilmsies for to grig my collage juniorees who, though they flush fuchsia |3and blench3|, are they octette and viginity in my shade but always my figurants. They may be yea of my year but they're nay of my day. Wait till spring has sprung in spickness and prigs beg in to pry they'll be plentyprime of housepets to pimp and pamper my. |3Impending marriageº3| Nature tells everybody about |3it3| but I learned all the runes of the gamest game ever from my old nourse Asa. A most adventuresting trot is her and she vicking well knowed them all heartswise and fourwords. How Olive d'Oyly and Winnie Carr bejupers they reized |3the dressing of3| a |3Saladmon Salanadmonº3| and how a peeper coster and a salt sailor med a mustied poet |3atweenem atwainemº3|. |3Bina de Bisse and Trestrineº von Terrefin.3| Sago sound, rite go round, kill kackle, kook kettle and (remember all should I forget to) bolt the thor. Auden. Wasn't it just divining that dog of a day as I sat |3astrid3| uppum their Drewitt's altar, as cooled as a culcumber, with you offering me clouts of illscents and them horners stagstruck on the leasward! Don't be of red, you blanching mench. The good father with the twingling in his eye will always have cakes in his pocket to bethroat us with for our allmichael good. Amum. And Amum. And Amum again. For tough troth is stronger than fortuitous friction and it's the surplice money, oh my young friend and ah me sweet creature, what buys the bed while wits borrows the clothes.