what keeps me here has grown into me
and I can't tear free
a style awaits to coin us

when the city gets you down
bury your weight by stepping stones;
our tholos resembles a race track.

You were always in dire need of a hand, Willie.
Brrum!
Have another go, Willie, I'll cheer you on.

His howd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (there was a wall of course in erection) Dimb! He stotted from the latter. Damb! he was dud. Dumb! Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For whole the world to see.

For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

L'ennui . . . c'est la jouissance vue de rives du désire.