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Is there not a bit of an imp in every boy, a puck, a pixie, rascal or sprite that beguiles more than pesters, teases not torments - molds a mother's heart and when it reappears
"red imp you stink"always tossing ink Goodfellow's worth no troubleer he goes errs left rubbleshine a shoe change a facehe moves at a startling paceto and fro from king to queen
She comes fast, speeding down the left wing board. A shot, a rocket, to my new facemask. Blackness. Ringing in my ears. No pain. Lord, I do not trust myself to stand. The task At hand – “Cover it” – a voice far away.