Sentence The Fourhundredandthirtyfifth
 “Marrowsky, Marrowsky,

There's no-one like Marrowsky,

He plins the spates, goes on dind blates,

And claims he's Alexander Nevsky,

With his arborescent lunch of billies,

He can give a bather rashful wirlie gillies;

His hermetic locks, ascetic looks,

are written of in bylish stooks,

By goyish birls, and birlish goys,

Who rance to daucous Nechno Toise,

And make a rella fealoise,

Marrowsky is the Ultimate of Endsville!”

said Gertie to Palestrine, somewhat enigmatically.