Unity
Dear soul, whenever you may conic upon the rest that's missing, do reshape my body at its best— aged thirty-three or thereabouts, or rising forty. well before it stales into a dirty story to regale you on our slippery seventh course— not out of nothing nowhere, no, but nothing— no, sir—
less than springtinnes we could never have been closer in our bountiful renouncings prior divorce.
And don't you take all time, at any rate no longer than to see our old headmaster. Science— wronger and the same dead ringer for exactitudes — pass blindly by belling at last an end of feuds with quaint beliefs that charitably might leave
room for scholar ancients to squat swotting at Christ's tomb,
or—naming one say Russell, game agnostic gnome,
to go along hobnobbing with the Pope of Rome.
CYRIL CUSACK
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