Kek mush never dicked so booti weshni juckalos or weshni kannis as yuv rikkered odoi.

They prastered atut saw the drumyas sim as kanyas.

Yeck divvus he was kisterin' on a kushto grai, an' he dicked a Rommany chal rikkerin' a truss of gib-puss 'pre lester dumo pral a bitti drum, an' kistered 'pre the pooro mush, puss an' sar.

I jins that puro mush better 'n I jins tute, for I was a'ter yeck o' his raklis yeckorus; he had kushti-dick raklis, an' he was old Knight Locke.

"Puro," pens the rye, "did I kair you trash ?" "I mang tute's shunaben, rya," pens Locke pauli; "I didn't jin tute sus wellin'!" So puro Locke hatched odoi 'pre dovo tem sar his miraben, an' that was a kushti covva for the puro Locke.
TRANSLATION.
That is like what is told of Mr Bartlett in Gloucestershire, who had a fine place near Gloucester and Bristol, where he lived in a great house.
No man ever saw so many foxes or pheasants as he kept there.