“You bastard!”, you can only do to bluster about, because you have no-face.
On the remaining snow, too painful to take a long walk off a short pier, it must be.
At Toronto, Dorompa to Roppa, calling out mahjong.
Those who are frighten, just only one thing about, speak louder than.
Kibi-dango, being scattered and confused, blowin’ by wind.