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Her littles bodi, behind glass,
her B-ing, dependsin on me, it seems

& so littles I can do. They
lieks not her fethurs, her style,

her eatsin. Her writsin, I likes
it, da shaky fethur pen spellin

miss. I miss it, liek I miss
my freedom uf felicous speech,

teh feline welcome, all gone,
hunter collegeaus sink them

teefhs into her, and in me their
is nuffing but gilt and bloddy

angur at unfairness. Hows can
I save Ur fethurs, now?

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