Greek tailor: Euripedes?
Greek client: Yeah, Eumenides?
There the pen. Becks off again. Pointless to eschew it. Nothing
left to do but do it. So to it. Without point but the lack thereof, the
incipient sets out determined the way least found to be the least
Absurd. The cognate object of desire wants only want; fulfillment
would only fill the pale bucket with a song sung in the echo of the
well. Round reason congratulates itself on lapping its presumption
but the same tale told may be news to thee if thou hast ne’er heard
it. The question is never answered, no matter the pitiable pleas of
the mendicant.
The beggar begs, the dreamer dreams, the tattered tailor only
seems to seam; no one gets his jokes tho’ he leaves ‘em all in
stitches.
poetastrophy 