‘Er, that’s be.’
‘Eh?’
‘That should be not to be, not not to wee.’
‘What the hell is thyself talking about?’
‘Thou said... ah, never mind. Go on reading, will thee?’
‘Right. Moving on. I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word would narrow up thy soul, freeze thy young brood, make thy two eyes, like scars, start from their spheres, thy knitted and combined locks to fart, and each particular hair... ‘
‘Um, that’s harrow not narrow, blood not brood, stars not scars, knotted not knitted and part not, er, fart.’
‘Quite. Look, perhaps thee had better make me...
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1715 words
Humour
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