The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban’d hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on some still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Cotgrave says a Crosse-bow; also, the sinewie Cross-bow, wherewith a man shoots, not deere, but his deerest.
little girl blue come blow your corn
the cock’s in the meadow all swollen and sworn
just a bit stiff towards the old upper lip
No one has endurance like the man who sells insurance
At the woodchoppers’ ball.
He smells like an artifact from the seed bank.
You know how much smarter we are than those dummies of days gone past? You can store the whole works of a supposed big shot like Issac Newton in under a gigabyte (for example). But it would take a thousand gigabytes to do justice to Woody Allen, and that’s with extreme compression. And 500 years from now, nobody will know nothing about Newton, but Woody will be on the tip of their tongues. As we say in the mother language.
I needed molecular nitrogen but the converters were on the blink. Maybe that’s just me. I downed a can of beans. Thank god for the microbes. The next morning I awoke in greasy bottoms with a clear head.
British authorities agreed to the creation of a “sterile zone” around Panurge with a series of road closures in central London and a security cordon keeping the public away from his cavalcade. The American had also wanted to travel with a mini-gun, which usually forms part of the mobile armoury in his cavalcade. It’s fired from a tank and could mow down hundreds of terrorists on Panurge’s say-so. This is especially helpful during peacekeeping deployments.
That that’s the way it’s going to be.