a middle aged man from Spain in designer jeans asked me to write him a song so i said i'd write him several and he could choose one.
this is what i've come up with this morning
then he turned to me to say
i assume you are au fait
with the chef's superlative souffle
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,
And ye that on the sand with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green, sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
Is to make...
all the forum's a stage
ambition should be made of sterner stuff
bum buggering
cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war
thebardthe isle is full of noises
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