Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. And so sudden and well-directed was the assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. 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.
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