Oztralia below the Tropic of Capricorn
I have of late
But wherefore i know not
Lost all my mirth
This goodly frame, the Earth
Seems to me a sterile promontory
The Air, look you
This brave o'erhanging firmament
This majestical roof
Fretted with golden fire,
While it appears to me
But a foul and infested congregation of vapours
And I say to myself
What a wonderful world
Keep your pecker up, Set.
Liver salts might be just what you need.
I talk to the trees, but they don't listen to me.
I think that i shall never see . . .
Trite . . . not tripe . . .
Haggis
Great green gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts
Goodness, gracious, Great Balls of Fire ! ! !
take it to the limit
one more time
