Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover me.
Bess had been a sort of a gift to replace my trusty splattergun, Bessie, lost in the far north.
Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space […]
Tach it up, tach it up / Buddy gonna shut you down
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