Call me the Golden herm.

    My mot, quot;sal, of t boy did die,quot; as my Aunt titania says, t;boyquot; in tances is pus, a bit, so get ting director out of a tig. For quot;boyquot; is correct, as far as it goes, but insufficient. Nor is t Sout rees groiplied far beyond tmost reacultified Europocentric imaginations. C myt of Coramandel far a and precise as lacquer.

    My Aunt titania. Not, I sural aunt, no blood bond, no knot of tion, but my mot friend, to ed me, and, t;auntiequot;.

    titania, s fat, sie tit-tit-tit-ania (for its are tice first, size of barrage balloons), tit-tit-tit-omania boxed me up in a trunk s from tores, labelled it quot;anted on Voyagequot; (oh, yes, indeed!) and shipped me here.

    o -- Atiscard wood. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain!

    quot;Flaming Junequot;, tic fairies mutter, looking glum, as , poor dears, ttle ered to ter-logged take off and no sooner airborne ting do;Never suc; complain tting on -- I must admit -- a brave if pastel-coloured floral s t dis ed upon tions of dozens and dozens of teeny tiny sneezes, for no place on tomies to store a  shocking colds as well as I.

    Note, peacock-jemare, I call it. t oaks and brougogetottery elms so t t disning, and, at nigars e about your temperate climate, dear, I snap at Aunt titania, but s all on Uncle Oberon,  rain  all time, t. Of ME!

    For Oberon is passing fell and h

    Because t stendant h

    A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;

    S a changel