The Chatterings of Sir Roger Hammock

I heard a cow chattering like a refrigerator. I saw a raven, or what’s left of it after the owl. I stuck a feather in my botnet, and thought, have I been here before?

I met her on a hammock. Can you picture that? My people consider it a sign of good fortune. But since I have one fist of iron and my head is mostly embalmed in clay, I feel in my element with blue nitrogen and all the higher orbitals.

Not everyone is cut out to be a carpenter.  Not every carpenter is cut out to be — wait, here comes everyone now:

He’s got a lice knife style coming out his ears. He’s so clever he knew better than to get his head examined, although they all said that’s what they thought he needed.  What might they find? Tendencies toward plagiarism? Disrespect towards the democratic product, as it is now marketed? Uncalled-for flippancy in the face of doom??

It’s not like I’m not busy, what with my translation of the Wake into Urbo-Croatian*, and the impending announcement of the final solution to the mystery of Pantagruelion, but still, I thought it would be kind of nice to take some time out and talk with some other people on the cell blockade. 

As a child, Henri was known for horsing around with the chambermaids, and when later a king, for chambering the milkmaids. ’Twas said to be in the Cowichan style. 

* I’m stuck on a fragment from episode 4:

And so they went on, the fourbottle men, the analists, ungu-am and nunguam and lunguam again, their anschluss about her whosebefore and his whereafters and how she was lost away away in the fern and how he was founded deap on deep in anear, and the rustlings and the twitterings and the raspings and the snappings and the sighings and the paintings and the ukukuings and the (hist!) the springapartings and the (hast!) the bybyscutt-lings and all the scandalmunkers and the pure craigs that used to be (up) that time living and lying and rating and riding round Nunsbelly Square.

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