Nake of evenings under yet in wire a a to a gizzard, I am your
father! although i pout the wayward garden hose and kink it till it's
juice no longer flows my, my, what is that you've got there? It's a
wee little bunny I cought in a rut that echoed with sadness through
the halls of the mighty and wise, and wage war on their
point-proper diction Life,
and forgetteth where exactly i put it