Il n'y a pas d'hors-texte

There once was a person called Liz
Who would get in a terrible tizz
If one slagged off the text
She'd get awfully vexed
For she claimed she's a text — and she is!

There once was a textual vision
Which embodied a loony position
It was not white or black
Or a smelly old yak
But a mere binary opposition.

Horrendously purple monstrosities
Used to spout lots of verbal pomposities,
Though they may have been right
On a Saturday night,
On a Sunday they were useless verbosities.

There once was a chap who was vexed
That writing had thinking annexed
Tho' you may deride it
There's nothing outside it
And therefore "Il n'y a pas d'hors-texte."