And that, so it was, till now.
The journal arises
on Whitsun Saturday after a prolonged
jojourn in the land of the tetrahedrons,
inspelled by inchohol (how are things in inchaholy?),
in the leantime a beggar become,
so injured the risk of recovery is
now a threat, like church twice on Sundays,
or school
anyday
Smart,
smug Smart Alec sat,
soiled by ibex ordure,
popping vindicates
at established fates.
Marquis de Plonqueur
Mozart Violet echoes
conch in Sea.
All is stop.
No ghosts,
(One did look!)
The door!
Is that a dog?
Would it, could it be?
Back from killing conies,
flushing out fat farm rats,
haring up hills,
racing gannets on the strand.
Yes, don’t be silly,
it was here,
it was her.
Fresh as the icy, blue zephyr,
that bid me: ‘How are Ye?’