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 Rh the season ’tis, my lovely lambs,

of Sumner Volstead Christ and Co. the epoch of Mann’s righteousness the age of dollars and no sense. Which being quite beyond dispute

as prove from Troy (N. Y.) to Cairo (Egypt) the luminous dithyrambs of large immaculate unmute antibolshevistic gents (each manufacturing word by word his own unrivalled brand of pyro -technic blurb anent the (hic) hero dead that gladly (sic) in far lands perished of unheard of maladies including flu)

my little darlings, let us now passionately remember how— braving the worst, of peril heedless, each braver than the other, each (a typewriter within his reach) upon his fearless derrière sturdily seated—Colonel Needless To Name and General You know who a string of pretty medals drew

(while messrs jack james john and jim in token of their country’s love received my dears the order of The Artificial Arm and Limb)

—or, since bloodshed and kindred questions inhibit unprepared digestions, Rh