As we followed him along the street, he explained our whyness, whenceness, and whitherness to all the loafing children of the sun who inquired of him.
Put on your glad rags and git down with the in-crowd at Casablanca’s hip Boulevard de la Corniche (p101)
You'll sip freshly pressed cane juice overlooking cane fields[.]
Poetry has then its weedage plenteous and pestilent. Yet count not the thousand apparently inutilitarian charms and sweetnesses, as parts of this weedage: a wreath of roses has its own worth no less than a sheaf of corn.
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