Dimly Wit

Of all the fates that might befall him, what with the vicissitudes of the dark
ages approaching and all, the only faculty he feared losing was his wit. Not
that one that knows how to knit but the other feebler one that knoweth only
how to nit. For he knew if this small spark should ever fail, all that would be
left to do would be to grimly sit and stew. There in the deepening darkness
there would be no last stand against the noseless one—that one who can
no more smell a joke than a fetid fart, who thinks his grimace fools the fools
that it is a smile, but whose lack of cheek, to say nothing of style, gives away
his sappy sciolism as what it is, a rasp of phlegmatic bile. That evil
fucker must be faced down ‘til the end, plunged thru his black-tarred heart
with the saving stake of irony.