Dear dear

"What, is he dead, then?" asked Tree.

"Dear, dear Beerbohm," responded Irving. "What, you too?"

"Me too, what!" added Tree. "But wait — it's anachronistic."

("Dear, dear anachronistic-y!")

"Are you!" asked Arthur, a little confused, "You shouldn't have eaten so many bath buns."

"'Tis BUT an hour ago that IT WAS NIIINE!"

"You're T.S. Eliot, and putting the emphasis in the wrong place hasn't been invented yet. Dear, dear, dear Larry, compared to us you're almost alive," Irving Tree and Beerbohm concluded, with veracity.

{Musical score}
I would not be MA-A-AD sweet heaven, not ma-ad...

But in an hour's time it would have been eleven, rather too many. "How thiiin and cleear / The horns of elfland FAAINTLY blowing!"

    "No," said Arthur, a little embarrassed. "It's my small intestine..."