Something Different

I wrote the following one morning while waiting for a bus. Don't be terribly disappointed if it makes no sense at all; putting it on the Web is purely ego gratification and I offer no excuses at all. For those who are determined to figure out what I'm getting at, it may help to know that I wrote it during Easter week. And it was gray, but not raining.

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Helola twone in all anime moping jude allan juan amos peeksfilled emblessed Pisgah'll feats (inner ear steponit withal the fiends exhaunted; obi the lonely foeman and the Preacher's afraid!) dismembring the lamb hooded end essecuted like a bief or shave for the salivation of all dinners (dan!) and winners (when?) to bring them all unleaven. Matzoth neis godlike ewe jewing in a spacelike Dis? Dis'll gatehew airi toim, buttonly Datall treacher foin. Foin, foin, an'Hower yerownbadsef? Buddowny wint, unuppyging, ore Godalek an excidement, and whoore youre to augure whit someding so emportunous? Lit it not be sat that noone lived their beastly beauty!

Butsstop back in pace (and stime) to beseen whatermination is the folkusification of my spectrification for allyer exxaggsperation; for I insure hyou and, knotty silly bull of thish litter (onk!) is witout its sins (eeonk!) wither here by doendy or by the hassle of San Simmillian (where my heasts by the see as my berst used to bee; ah, whobut a mercury can exaggemine the chromicles of these trhymes? Observe us not, hurold and bee gloan) and the hole of the whole if the Howell (Dean Wilyum, go best! Jung, man!) will only but to whyshyu a blissing of comffits and jay on the most jayful dave of our cillingdear (Who spilt Bambams mither?) when allgood Tristians alide the asseult on the sinsabar sensabel centaurous silkts ($6.66/yd, In This Style Only, at Tzingerz Tzimploriem), fauss dregs that sep the whilmn, antilife choycean ponsters sieking to kall the ungrowing choilled to the unmown soilled nor born nor burne not tauf ere turf butohnley to chill killdern (allas, they have stilled the spilldrin!) withoutmost chlarity for their sowles. Be me fear: I cannomore.

But quell sort if grating is tis to be griving to griv, striving to shriv, my godfriends on thisty af oll dys? Shoely eykim say bittern thit? Canopy robin (wrenpest) my kildeers on their disuse (trashure!) whith eek seekch starling revolitions? Larken into my song and fillowallalong, hawks in high's heavings all swill witternstong. Payne of distension toothey men who mind the certain; he's juanibus. Eyegull fox he's raggin form! Peaec to each you. Hope you jest. -- My name? Call me wit: you will. (Rit, you schwill!) If in sach a situal see what sin store. This why mehardcas! Clumbaboord the trypt of your lies (mivver moynd arter), raidspike an fier, lifting it up forty morror need eye...

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-- at this point I was interrupted by the unusually timely arrival of my bus (the 41 Porlock Street Express), and when I'd paid my fare and boarded, I found I'd lost my train of thought. Such as it was.