Civilised My Syphilised Yarbles.

Language Exists Less To Record The Actual Than To Liberate The Imagination.

Only In England Is The Perversion Of Language Regarded As A Victory For Democracy.

The Trombones Crunched Redgold Under My Bed, And Behind My Gulliver The Trumpets Three-wise Silverflamed, And There By The Door The Timps Rolling Through My Guts And Out Again Crunched Like Candy Thunder. Oh, It Was Wonder Of Wonders. And Then, A Bird Of Like Rarest Spun Heavenmetal, Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now, Came The Violin Solo Above All The Other Strings, And Those Strings Were Like A Cage Of Silk Around My Bed. Then Flute And Oboe Bored, Like Worms Of Like Platinum, Into The Thick Thick Toffee Gold And Silver. I Was In Such Bliss, My Brothers.

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.

Fumbling For A Word Is Everybody's Birthright.