Hi Arthur,
What fun!
Please, please, tell us what pub this guy goes to, what bus he may catch,
what post office he queues in - so we can all avoid the places!
Bob
>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: The Periphrasist
>Date: Sat, 3 May 2003 17:07:58 +0100
>
>The Periphrasist.
>
>
>A word with you if I may, a moment of your time,
>why thank you, I am grateful, I shall not keep you long,
>my father, it was, who often averred
>that prolixity, sir, was a sin
>and verbosity an indulgence of the undisciplined mind,
>to say the least, and I am my father’s son
>and will not, therefore, beat about the bush,
>but come straight to the point,
>for circumlocution, I know you will agree,
>is a great waste of breath and time
>and being a gentleman whose life,
>I am sure, is as full and busy
>as I assure you mine is also,
>cannot afford the ineffectual and inefficient expense of either,
>so I will get right to the heart of the matter,
>not go round the houses, in needless perambulations,
>for I eschew tortuous long-windedness, sir, deplore it utterly,
>for I am not, you will have gathered,
>from our brief acquaintance, by nature, loquacious,
>my flow of words dams up with ‘ums’ and ‘errs’ and ‘as it weres’.
>You understand, I’m sure, the need for pith and punch
>a rapier of swift debate, I’ll be bound, an abjurer of idle chatter,
>the pastime of women and sparrows, sir, I always say,
>yes, a man after my own heart, I know it,
>damn my eyes, I knew it right off,
>not a man to bluster and prevaricate,
>no penny-a-liner he, I thought,
>starve he would if he were paid per word, I thought.
>Am I right, sir, am I right? Of course I am right,
>I have always prided myself upon my astute judgement of a man,
>and you, sir, I can tell at a glance, are a man of few words
>I can detect the odour of terseness about you, the aura of brevity,
>never use two words where one might suffice, eh,
>a coiner of the telling phrase, the apt response,
>the witty thrust, the barbed word,
>the bon-mot, the riposte that disarms.
>My old father, I mentioned him before you will recall,
>may he rest in peace, dead these twenty years or more, you know,
>choked one Easter on a piece of crackling from a Wiltshire hog,
>greatly upsetting my mother who was seated opposite him,
>as she had been accustomed to since they were wed,
>now he was a man who could still a room with a word,
>admired around the town, he was, guest at many a feast,
>invited for his conversation, no less, which blazed finely with brandy,
>he was a person of some note, his savoir-faire renowned,
>his repartee a thing of legend, ah, the parties he regaled
>but I digress, where was I……?
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