It Was Like A Bird Of Rarest-spun

The Meal Was Pretentious - A Kind Of Beetroot Soup With Greasy Croutons; Pork Underdone With Loud Vulgar Cabbage, Potato Croquettes, Tinned Peas In Tiny Jam-tart Cases, Watery Gooseberry Sauce; Trifle Made With A Resinous Wine, So Jammy That All My Teeth Lit Up At Once.

I See What Is Right And Approve, But I Do What Is Wrong.

And, My Brothers, It Was Real Satisfaction To Me To Waltz-left Two Three, Right Two Three-and Carve Left Cheeky And Right Cheeky, So That Like Two Curtains Of Blood Seemed To Pour Out At The Same Time, One On Either Side Of His Fat Filthy Oily Snout In The Winter Starlight.

I Wrote Much Because I Was Paid Little. I Had No Great Desire To Leave A Literary Name Behind Me.

Then, Brothers, It Came. Oh, Bliss, Bliss And Heaven. I Lay All Nagoy To The Ceiling, My Gulliver On My Rookers On The Pillow, Glazzies Closed, Rot Open In Bliss, Slooshying The Sluice Of Lovely Sounds. Oh, It Was Gorgeousness And Gorgeosity Made Flesh.