(or, the thanks I give).

When first I beheld fair Olivia, methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; in that very instant I turned into a hart and my desires like fell, cruel, and baying hounds ere since pursue me.

But sooth! See! Where once a lone Olivia stood before here and now are four score and twenty more.

Broad of bay and neat of beam; Actaeons actual attraction was only ever half at stake‘ Sir Francis Drake’s smaller ball breaks at Walpole. Odds and ends and heaven sent, by sixth or seventh, pay the rent.

WHY?

Because the rent simply must be paid, no matter what we say? Pour quois mois? ‘cus I’m cheap as a razor-blade’s edge in Berlichingen. GOATzed and throated with sauce and BOSS awls, if you call while I’m in surgery I’ll put you through the fourth wall.

Piebald or regular type? I’m Deutsch Elm to the Dykes; vaguely sober right now, rather be higher than kites. Yes that is in fact me, bringing fists to a rock fight BLEED EASILY LORELAI seaside dimepiece.. ayo ayo ayo ayoayo ayo right we do get it, chippie’s up in 5// 5 times 5 is how many lifetimes?

ohhhhhh one-two, Olivias kneel before you (and one to face Ophelia’s fate)

both alike in dignity, in verona beach we spray our creed

ancient grudge break to new mutiny

and civil servant’s stances seem inclined to disagree.

from four to six to seven tender hearted Gipper clones

Unrealistically hexing w/ chessboxing and starfish-flavoured trombones

(yea of the hot-dog flavorèd water, less said the better)

Two lovers wreck their own lives, in spite of oh how hard they strived and No One really knows the sound of “any way the Will blows….”

But Billiam Jefferson getting his knob topped off by ole gormagog, or god, or Llod, or Gogmagog, whoever was that slobbed his log other than Monica (her with the dress, not the friend with a mom from Birmingham, Alabam-Khazan Iscandaryan ma nomme-de-guerre, mon frére mon pére, mon chére. Prepare yourself! Because in this Tinhat, Sinbad’s set to riddle the straights of cinnamon, “who comin’ round fa dinnaman?” “Ya kid, ya goat, ya wife, ya slim jims, ya king, humpty-dumps lady lumps, and alll the rest of the merrier men.

now and again take a pause and wash ya balls off, jeepers the creep mr Nabokov peeping in on Tom, Dick, and Larian call and gimme a job. Last time I was slav chose kalashnikov, but this time I might saw it right off at the stalk. Prokofiev really mighta done a better job; in soviet russia, the stupid sods actually pulled the gambit off.

Cold war ended the second I gained consciousness; they suspected the second I popped it’d turn awful hot.