Small Mushy Incident / c&c

[Orson Wells as CitizenCain]

Those English bookshops all have stairs that wind,
And so one night we climbed a winding stair
In search of poetry -- only to find
A bald and wrinkled crone declaiming there.
It danced and pranced and flounced across the stage,
It ranted and it raved of Poet's Day,
It shrieked of killer dwarfs; and in its rage,
It drenched the first five rows in spittle-spray.
You pointed out the window at the dock,
To where a mongrel lay upon some waste
In ratty splendour, licking its own cock,
Oblivious to all but its own taste.
No poetry in that room, just a bore,
But you, dear, found a perfect metaphor.

The gunkmouthed dwarf crawled from under the bed and up the stairs...
and saw his reflection in the windowpane.


The unwashed pizza boy crawled from his bed and into the bathroom...and saw
his reflection in the toilet bowl.

(how could he tell which was which?)

[Orson Wells as CitizenCain]

Those English bookshops all have stairs that wind,

It was Irish

"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you."

And so one night we climbed a winding stair
In search of poetry -- only to find
A bald and wrinkled crone declaiming there.
It danced and pranced and flounced across the stage,
It ranted and it raved of Poet's Day,
It shrieked of killer dwarfs; and in its rage,
It drenched the first five rows in spittle-spray.
You pointed out the window at the dock,
To where a mongrel lay upon some waste
In ratty splendour, licking its own cock,
Oblivious to all but its own taste.
No poetry in that room, just a bore,
But you, dear, found a perfect metaphor.

Well done

Too late...

Better late than never, Amanda.



Your whole life is one big puddle of late, Will.

[Orson Wells as CitizenCain]

Those English bookshops all have stairs that wind,
And so one night we climbed a winding stair
A bald and wrinkled crone declaiming there.
It danced and pranced and flounced across the stage,
It ranted and it raved of Poet's Day,
It shrieked of killer dwarfs; and in its rage,
It drenched the first five rows in spittle-spray.
You pointed out the window at the dock,
To where a mongrel lay upon some waste
In ratty splendour, licking its own cock,
Oblivious to all but its own taste.
No poetry in that room, just a bore,
But you, dear, found a perfect metaphor.
The gunkmouthed dwarf crawled from under the bed and up the
stairs...
and saw his reflection in the windowpane.

Please post your personal diary entries on MySpace, okay?

I might, since I won't be posting them here on a biographical thread
about Rob "Mushmouth" Evans, Amanda.
No, it's more a matter of you failing the "try to have your reading
make sense", Amanda.
Since the only sense you can understand are the delusional fantasies
you cook up in your own senile dementia, that doesn't seem likely,
Amanda.

Why? The "Small, Mushy Incident" happened in /his/ pants.

Really? Judging from your photograph:

http://scrawlRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR


Dockery why do you INSIST on trying to make fun of others when you clearly
look like someone who lost a bar fight and was thrown into a dumpster, then
slept in that dumpster for a day and a half, only to emerge and fall into a
puddle of dog urine?