“Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. This time they would call it murder. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. I try to execute people with records, bad men, child molesters, criminals, lowlifes.
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