ERRATA
Hear the orchestras tuning up, the bombs exploding, — no: "These are lies, I get this all the time."
That is a phrase immortelle! That, excuse me, is a phrase immortal.
Now, where are my lines? I see light-fighting lions, barbarians waiting to meet us, lightning loins. Right, still lies. I get these all the time: Okay, ixnay on the from-the-lotus-on.
"Now," cried Linus, "is the autumn of our overreliance
on the syrup-eyed shadow of the old oblate
who has brought us as low as the other barbarians tired of this spattering."
This fell on brittle ears. It was the primitive tribe swallowing them, fuselage and all.
The — no, it was a housing development infringing on their preserved lands.
This private month of years was in full effect.
In clear view of anyone standing on the balcony, Linus cut them all down.
He had been referring to prophecies and other such bewitchery, which these fellows all supported.
But dealing with the devils had acclimatized them, those festive persons on the balcony, to malicious winds. Everyone knows death is inevitable!
The mummified ape mouth, brimming with tears, was everyone's favorite objet nouveau in which to watch their reflection.