blatham wrote:A clue to "lapinity" might be found courtesy Gilbert and Sullivan...
"She is the very model of a modern rogue rodentia
Not wedded, but been bedded in most startling sequentia
Plaster or acoustic tile or post and beam with chandelier
There's not an Aussie ceiling unaquainted with her derriere
There's ne'r a hare from Ayre to there, and further, whose affinity
Hasn't happly hopped into this legend of lapinity"
He is the very model of a modern mountie dilettante,
He's ever with the bonnest mot, and some would say grandiloquent,
He sings Puccini to his horse while strumming on the harpsichord
(Although she's learned to block her ears and never hears a bloody word)
He's stern with all Republicans, he yearns to tan their stubborn tush
And if you like explosions, then it's easy - just praise Mister Bush -
But when it comes to romance, he's all honeyed words and limpid eyes,
Since someone, (taking him in hand), taught him to psychoanalyse.....
He's greatest fun, so Craven says, when he forgets the politics
And frolics in his birthday suit with artful, witty, wordy tricks -
He spins a yarn of smoothest silk with ne'er a hint of artifice,
And makes us laugh until, it seems, we flow from every orifice.
In stanzas sesquipedal he pokes fun at all pomposity
And puffery of pundits he deflates with great ferocity
Conceals his rapier wit in clothes of motley most remarkable
And hits his mark the hardest when he's seeming but to farnarkle.
