I am a man celebrated in recondite circles for his exquisite stoppages the lips of which have prematurely grown fat from too much exercise why shouldn't one be allowed an occasional stump after decades of hemorrhaging wildly at the drop of a bucket.
Three buckets I have one on each hand and one strapped to the back of my shoulders the exclusive content of which is the ossified stools of my past the weight is preventing me from growing voluptuous like everybody else adorned around the neck with fantastic ulcers the growth of which is considered to be highly decorative in this part of the country.
I refuse to be lambasted by your bloated I Ching that ghastly crossword puzzle appearing at the back of the Times besmeared by gumpats darkened through the centuries.
Nor do I care to place in my mouth a piece of rubber band spat out pre-Christian era from the fatal palate of Ghengis Khan although I am quite obviously one of his more illustrious descendants.
The physical properties of the world address themselves to me only insofar as your two pieces of pork fat dangling from the revolutionary gallows about to be erected tomorrow in the public square the gala for which I have two reservations.