‘Allow me to introduce myself,
I amp Rugert Diptsch, third
Pid of Bosnia. I write
national beast epic of my
country wiss pig and horse,
which, unfortunately, charac
terizes history my country.
I weel now recite two lines
of my beloved beast epic and
zen translate into your unfor-
tunate languich: “Perinski
vooie chepatski eet, berunski
ipt katorski peet!” wheech, you
see rhymes; and now for a trans-
lation to your malignid English:
“Goose went down to county fair,
to see what pate fois was.”

It was 1932, I remember, when
my fater was kink of country and
decided it was depression so he
got country to build torist hostels
for de people cump to, and got
all dees magazines to it advertize;
of specialty was de national food
of my beloved country, pinsk, which
is combination of sour creemp, vodka,
and coffee grounts. It was success,
until six American torists drop dead
in six weeks of bad stomachs so papa
close down hostels and turn dem into
hompes for national and beloved beast
my country, pik.

When zee communists invade my country
1926 wiss agit-prop, all dee peasants
would not do deir jops, such as retrieve
in stealth of night de soil from
neighboring Serbia, Herzegovina, and
Montenegro which had been pushed over
border wiss flood that cumps once a
year in sprink. So my fater command
de ones who would not do dis to raise
deir hants to spirit of Lenin, and
when dey did, he shouted, and militia
swept through and cut off all deir armps.

Another time, during great sprink flood,
a ting you in your country call tornado
cump from clouts and swept over peasants
in fields as dey worked and dey all ran
to caves tinking it was de finger of Got
and so my fater was loss what to do and
got the prime minister to go to Atens
to see archbishop and tell him we are in
trouble, and archbishop refuse to do any-
ting so prime minister commence to strangle
him, and archbishop say “How much? Stop
dees what you do.” “Two tousand drachmas.”
“I weel do eet, but leaf your fingers away.”
But archbishop was angry and had plan untold
to prime minister, and when he got to loud
speaker microphone dat was wired to all de
caves, he said “People, in de name of Got!
Cump out de cafes, dot was not de finger
of Got pointing to your dampnation. Dot
was the PENIS of Got looking for a new
VIRGIN! Ha! Ha!” and so he ran to plane
which was nearby in a field of lambps and
spet back to Atens while my fater was pullink
his hair and screamink and do you know to dis
day, dere are old maids liffing in dose caves,
praying, I am sure, every night for dat to
happen. But as my fater, who is now dead,
would be to say when de electric light
flicker, “fantsi fooie flit,” which means
“look out, dat bird is flying wiss no winks!” ’