Thursday, 8 August 2013


Written when I was an astrophysics undergraduate, in a lecture, from memory, having been out all night, home, showered, and into 9am lecture. This may be the reason why I didn't graduate.

Toby or not Toby, that is my Friesian:- Whether ‘tis nobly in my shorts, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune tellers; Or to take balms against a sea of treacle, and by addressing, send them? To dye, - to sleep, -

Norman; - and, by a sleep to say that we end the heartburn, and the thousand natural yoghurts that Jo Guest is heir to -, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be dished. To fry;- to beep; - to beep perchance to stream; - ay, where’s my sub?

For in my sub of death what streams may come, when we have shuffled off this slinky coil, must give us gauze. There’s the President Elect, that bakes a fleck to so long Fife;

For who would suffer the whips and scorns of lime, the oppressors thong, the cloud gran’s Countdown, the fangs of despised glove, the store’s soufflĂ©, the insolvent of Grimsby, and the ferns that the perky mandrake of the unhealthy steaks, when bees themselves might their queen bee make with a bare bottom? Who would Frank Butchers bare, to grunt and sweat under an ugly wife; But that the Fred of something after Wilma, - the undiscovered country bumpkin, from whose barn no traveller returns, - jigsaws his head; And makes us rather cook those cats we have, than fry other that we know not of? Thus colanders doth make housewives of us all; And thus the native Hugh and Laurie, off the tele, is sicklied o’er with the pale projectile vomit; And Starship Enterprises of great pith and rind, With this retard their curries are cooked too hot, and lose the name of Allan.

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