oh i was a bad man, a bad bad man... i better pay up, and say my prayers; you won't give me the Bob Dylan meadows of Kentucky tomorrow... you won't, just drive-through assertions on centipedes, Alistair Armstrong on the moon, the discovered and boring Alaska and Antarctic... what else, tortoise Tsars talking penguin? before the science gets there, the fiction will be repulsive to begin with.
and to think a tyrant like Henry VIII could write the anthem (greensleeves) that's not god save the queen*, and allow the queen her head? but i'm sure the proverbial fancy of England undermined both William and Canute with her willing ways and her hip-borne sways... to mind i have but the Arabian girl in mind her elephant costume of Baghdad - but of course i revel is speaking for all things human - a timely message some would say with choking at the joke - and i too, for to hear the cockchafer, candle-lit moonlight the baking of potatoes, the old ways of communism spoken from the woods, ancient adverts for the creased shirt, i'd be the African Bambo boy of tomorrow; wild man of the north, whitened, ain't Eskimo, and ain't no believer in superstition - a man that feeds no soul to only feed the mind and this, requested world, clean shaven and happy tie-tight-dressed for the day-job, loose feet numbering 7 inches in 12 inch shoes, my tongue of a pauper in a wallet of a billionaire spending a lifetimes's worth of food and whatever vanities dragged into the stench of a squat.