| striped conference here's how. Nerbu de Bios! If you twos goes | 1 |
| to walk upon the railway, Gard, and I'll goad to beat behind the | 2 |
| bush! See to it! Snip! It's up to you. I'll be hatsnatching harrier | 3 |
| to hiding huries hinder hedge. Snap! I'll tear up your limpshades | 4 |
| and lock all your trotters in the closet, I will, and cut your silk- | 5 |
| skin into garters. You'll give up your ask unbrodhel ways when | 6 |
| I make you reely smart. So skelp your budd and kiss the hurt! | 7 |
| I'll have plenary sadisfaction, plays the bishop, for your partial's | 8 |
| indulgences if your my rodeo gell. Fair man and foul suggestion. | 9 |
| There's a lot of lecit pleasure coming bangslanging your way, | 10 |
| Miss Pinpernelly satin. For your own good, you understand, for | 11 |
| the man who lifts his pud to a woman is saving the way for | 12 |
| kindness. You'll rebmemer your mottob Aveh Tiger Roma | 13 |
| mikely smarter the nickst time. For I'll just draw my prancer | 14 |
| and give you one splitpuck in the crupper, you understand, that | 15 |
| will bring the poppy blush of shame to your peony hindmost till | 16 |
| you yelp papapardon and radden your rhodatantarums to the | 17 |
| beat of calorrubordolor, I am, I do and I suffer, (do you hear me | 18 |
| now, lickspoon, and stop looking at your bussycat bow in the | 19 |
| slate?) that you won't obliterate for the bulkier part of a running | 20 |
| year, failing to give a good account of yourself, if you think I'm | 21 |
| so tan cupid as all that. Lights out now (bouf!), tight and sleep | 22 |
| on it. And that's how I'll bottle your greedypuss beautibus for | 23 |
| ye, me bullin heifer, for 'tis I that have the peer of arrams that | 24 |
| carry a wallop. Between them. | 25 |
| Unbeknownst to you would ire turn o'er see, a nuncio would | 26 |
| I return here. How (from the sublime to the ridiculous) times | 27 |
| out of oft, my future, shall we think with deepest of love and | 28 |
| recollection by rintrospection of thee but me far away on the | 29 |
| pillow, breathing foundly o'er my names all through the empties, | 30 |
| whilst moidhered by the rattle of the doppeldoorknockers. Our | 31 |
| homerole poet to Ostelinda, Fred Wetherly, puts it somewhys | 32 |
| better. You're sitting on me style, maybe, whereoft I helped | 33 |
| your ore. Littlegame rumilie from Liffalidebankum, (Toobli- | 34 |
| queme!) but a big corner fill you do in this unadulterated seat of | 35 |
| our affections. Aerwenger's my breed so may we uncreepingly | 36 |