THE LETTER

^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 ^|2there'sº so ⁽⁺much⁺⁾ more plants than chants for cecilies^2| that I was thinking fairly killing times of putting an end to myself ^|2and my malodyº^2| when I remembered all your erringnesses. You sh'u'dn't write you ca'n't if you w'u'dn't pass for underdevelopmented. ^|2This is the propper way to say that blank.º^2| 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^|2|a, verbe de vie and verve to vie,^a| with love ay loved have I on my back spine and does for ever^2|. My intended ^|2who I'm throne away ⁽⁺on on,º^+)2| I'll ^|2take silk get my decree and take seidens ^|awhen I'm not ploughed first by some ^|blassoing lad Rolando the Lasso⁽⁺,^+)b|a|2| and flaunt on the flimsyfilmsies for to grig my ^|2collage^2| juniorees who^|2, though they flush fuchsia ⁽⁺& blench blank and blench⁺⁾,^2| are they ^|2twentyeight octette and viginity^2| in my shade ^|2but always my figurants^2|. ^|2They may be ^|ayea^a| of my year but ^|athey're^a| nay of my day. Wait till spring has sprung in spickness and prigs beg in ⁽⁺to to to⁺⁾ pryº they'll be plentyprime of housepets to pimp and pamper my.^2| Nature tells everybody about it 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. ^|2How Olive ⁽⁺D'Oyly d'Oyly⁺⁾ and Winnie Carr bejupers they reized a Saladmon ⁽⁺& and⁺⁾ how a peeper coster ⁽⁺& and⁺⁾ a salt sailor med a mustiedº poet atweenem. Sago sound, rite go round, kill kackle, kook kettle and ^|xRen Reme ⁽⁺Remember (remember⁺⁾ all should I forget ⁽⁺to)^+)x| bolt the thor. Auden.^2| Wasn't it just divining that dog of a day as I sat 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.