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Our beach is 23 miles long
And hard as any floor:
500 feet wide when the tide is out
Say! Who could ask for more?
The big white clouds sail in the sky,
My shoes are full of sand;
And if my girl was only here;
This place would sure be grand.

Steve Bogart got out a very smooth February Post Script. We presume it’s his association with Standard Oil. The Little man who isn’t here is receiving so many invisible papers lately that he plans visiting an optometrist. Will the Mailers kindly discontinue including that pro-nazi nag the reminder in bundles sent to us.

Ginny Baker should be plugging for Campbells Soup as she is better than Bill Hay. We liked Bill Northrop’s Rejected. More truth than poetry in that one, Bill. The April Ampersand is the weirdest little Journal seen for some time. We have yet to receive our first compliment on our pictures which are made from cuts of our photographs. Bob Holmans Spring Cubicle, most attractive.

The Hobo has no beginning, no spacing, and no ending. Also no Editor nor Publisher. A sad jumble. We enjoyed Songs of Dixie and congratulate Lyda and Gene on a good start. The Nutmeg Amateur is the neatest little paper we have seen for some time.

The first number of Nov-Shmoz-Ka-Pop received and in our opinion it should be banished to the place where they keep outdated Sears Roebuck catalogs. We extend our thanks to Ed Smith for publishing a complete list of N.A.P.A. members in his April Boys Herald. So long we’ve got to lay an egg.

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The fish down here come plenty large:
They jump right in your boat:
One makes a meal for 7 folks
The fightinist thing afloat.
We start out in the morning,
O’er waters wide we roam;
And where at night we do return,
We have to truck them home.

Nother Scotch Joke

McGinnish: Sandy, why are you tacking the wall paper on instead of pasting it?
Sandy McTavish: Mon: You don’t think I’m going to live here always do you?

The editors nightmare after looking over the illustrations in Burt Smith’s Eisegesss.

I’d like to be a Wise Guy.
And with the Wise Guys stand:
A Galliphunt to ride on,
Oh Boys! That would be grand.
With a scratching Cockalorum
To attend my every wish:
It surely would be Heaven,
What could be more delish?

* * * *

When a feverish groom in Amenia
Had nibbled away his gardenia,
They just let him graze
On the bridemaid’s bouquets,
To quiet the old neurasthenia.

Dewey Want Dewey?
You bet we dewey.

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B. F. Bianchi
Daytona Beach

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