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Mary Cresswell

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Don’t mention the war

 

The plot to pop the pope was perpetrated by the plutes. Right they were, they wrote, as they checked out all the routes. You bring the bomb, I’ll bring the broom. At the rate we’re going, we’re wrong about the room, but we can bring the bang about on the boat by bleating on the black bassoon.

Can you inveigle the envelope some time over June? Or should we wait instead, flop down on the manager’s float and slip unobtrusively down the flaming flume? Mister movie manager, that would be the main way of mangling that mogul over the moon. You can quote me on this – quote my horse – you can even quote the groom.

Whether we mope around the mop is moot at the moment. I had hoped to hop on the sloop before we slipped down the slope, but – all whooping aside – we may not have a hope. Drop me a drupe, knit me a note: toss me a tentative tickle of text. I’ll get back to your shoulder just as soon as I get ahead of my hand. Eyes only joking. But you can rest the guest.

 

 

 

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