Silage-trap left ajar (ewes’-tongues) and to think a czaress in horse’s bridle screaming at the drop of her lungs can’t get a good sausage-and-auger. I’m tender for that idiot writer, lived in a ferret’s hole with a notebook and scribes’ pen, wrote some beautify stuff; files the void, thumbtacks and emery bards and curlicue that won’t rub away, not even with a good wire-brush and awl.
