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Saturday, September 19, 2009 - 8:49 PM
Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire and so on, no melody or harmony and a pathetic French text and the whole joke was called L'Exilé de France.
If all French exiles indulge in such caterwauling then nobody will want
to have them anywhere. This boor also sang a song called Le toréador, which means the bull-fighter, with the refrain, every other second, of Ah que jaime 1'Espagne!
This was even more pitiful-if that were possible sometimes with leaps
of fifths, sometimes twisting about in chromatic Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire passages as if to
signify an attack of stomach-ache. If it hadn’t been followed by the
tremendous symphony I would have run away and left the crow to squawk
in his miserable, thin baritone. Meanwhile see that the next letters
you send are folded better. This way [X] is very unpractical and in bad
taste, it must be like this [x] or like this [X] please note. Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire
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