That odd old man and his ominous masterstroke fooled no one.
In his last days when on his last legs he used to ask us (and tell us)
"why prepare for an eternity in my absence when there is yet no proof of malignancy to my abcess?
"Why, when I have laid no egg do you scheme as if Im a chicken, and dream of omnichromaticly opulent ommelettes?
"You'll never now be endowed with my inheritance unless you can present to me the manner in which you'd face your destiny if I was never born nor sired you
down beneath the ceremony oni melt their plans together
so we wait in holy doomed unison
using the only oil we blessed for now
and save (or) the soiled oil we blessed for the future pewters b/c we know that in the evening we still have them to anoint.
Anouncing now to the moon:
in the realm of real meal spiders the minor offer is held open to the termites of the contract. (who hunger in cloistered rye)
Actually its really a good deal.
doom for the motion, or corpus for the bottle.
the judge just beamed and held us in contempt.