Got a feeling i got a touch of chronic wasting disease.
Some prion in the brain.
I’ll drink to that.
Fare thee well my fairy fay;
They buried him ‘neath a simmon tree;
His paragraph is there, you’ll see;
Beneath the shade he’s forced to lie,
All by the means of the blue-tail fly.
Jimmy Crack corn and I don’t care.
The master’s gone away.
Deck the hand with balls of palsey
Fettle your fish with fine fishery.
Three cheers for Christ’s own capitalist
— in the person of the father and of the son and of the holy ghost, amen —
and a festoon of fairy tales for the half-wit graduates of sunday school.
These as we know are the three great fallacies:
that god is dead
that there is a christian capitalist
that there are no holy murderers.
For if god is dead, who will bury the innocent?
And if there is a christian capitalist, is it one hump or two?
And if there were no holy murderers, would not god be as dead as the doorknob?
Maybe as they say god was killed by boredom and disgust.
Maybe the christian capitalist goes to church every sunday.
Maybe the holy murderer employs a cast of millions
to create enough euphemisms to get him through the eye.
When a lassie meets a laddie.
Needle in a haystack, two bits.
Pope’s nose: parts of a turkey
That fly has ants in his pants. It’s a blue-tail fly.
He had one game leg and the other was a peckerwood stump. The main mast carried it off.
He took Miss Mousie across his lap. That’ll be the day that I die. Or be buried alive.
Wearing out their grinders working on the railroad.
Someone left a case of business cards out in the rain.
Someone else left a can of Copenhagen out in the sleet.
Gargantua and other delights
Oracles no longer given in verse
Jack Sparrow sent Sponge Bob out the spar to search for the golden rivet.
*demptiare (the asterisk designates a form not attested in texts)
The spuds are big on the back of that rig.
Feral children fear the Freudian undertow
Halyards on the rigging. Sheets on the sail
Novel idea: Electrodes in brain. Cf. Death row.
Tear yourself away. That being said.
He landed funny.
If you catch my wind.
Public enemy number one. Women cry for it. Men will die for it. Reefer madness. Adults only.
Un astrologue un jour se laissa choir
Au fond d’un puits. On lui dit: Pauvre bête.
Tandis qu’à peine à tes pieds tu peux voir.
Penses-tu lire au-dessus de ta tête ?
Fables de La Fontaine, illustrated by J. J. Grandville.