If I Can Wheedle A Knife Or

Merely Corroborative Detail, Intended To Give Artistic Verisimilitude To An Otherwise Bald And Unconvincing Narrative.

When Every Blessed Thing You Have Is Made Of Silver, Or Of Gold, You Long For Simple Pewter.

When In That House Mps Divide/if They've A Brain And Cerebellum, Too/they've Got To Leave That Brain Outside/and Vote Just As Their Leaders Tell 'em To.

Oh, Wouldn't The World Seem Dull And Flat With Nothing Whatever To Grumble At?

Roll On, Thou Ball, Roll On! Through Pathless Realms Of Space, Roll On!