I believe in Deus Pater, keeper of a watch on the clock, and in Jay, an easy make, drunken minister in old clothes, conceived of the maternity hospital, shoved out into the bleeding limelight, suffered to stand though proud possessor of damnall, declared misery, bet to the rope, nantee saltee, and had not a red. He hentruded on death and avanced five parasangs on foot to Henry Nevil’s. He proceeded to the nearest canteen and there annexed liquor stores, at the right hand of the Bishops boosebox; from thence He shall stop short, whether on the scaffold high, never to go again. I believe in the holy spirits, two whiskeys for the Ubermensch, 12th rib gone, and his friend abaft, five Bass number 1′s, ginger cordial (I oughtn’t to have got myself swept along with those medics) wheels within wheels, Absinthe for me, pissedon green.
Don’t mention it.