Shakespeare's reincarnation pontificated,
"...they are talking on cushy divans
and there is the slightly fetid smell
de la religiosite des artistes ennouiees."
As he sat at his cushy library job at Brown, reading French dictionairies on
his computer, ablaze with the fragrant religiosity of his graphomanic Self,
the lovely and mysteriously sunglassed Henry, pretending in his poems that
they don't exist: the fetid perfumes which doth issue from his chosen and
bardic body.
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