She hears not Park appealing
Nor Gerrard's wail of woe,
Her heart is on to Ealing
89200;

For there her true love (smartest
Of lcl plmbrs) speaks;
For him our switch-board artist
Puts powder on her cheeks.

For him, the brave, the witty,
When evening's shadows drop
She flies from Rank and City
To tread some Western hop.

For him her spirit ranges
Through realms of blissful thrall,
And that is why Exchange is
Not getting Lndn Wll.

Little her mthr----

I'm sorry, reader; I really and truly am. There's my trunk call ...
"Hello. No, I can't hear ..."

We must finish it some other time, and you must try READING THE BOOK
for yourself srsly please.

"Hello! Hello! Hel-_lo_!"...