Very close to harmony

"No one told me about the floor," said Earwicker, emerging dustily from behind a rather old metaphor. "And why," (turning to Theodora), "did you have to be beautiful?" "Only to another parrot" she explained pentitently, "anyway, cheer up — it isn't pink any more. In fact, there isn't any background at all." Indeed, there were only floorboards, bodies and the conveniently placed metaphor. Also the romance, floating in a corner, which appeared to accomodate (sp) it. Music floated too, down the river. "Mark Antony Turnage!" said Konrad, and imploded, having finally found a piece of music which was meaner than himself. "We'll be back!" screamed the popes, in close harmony, it was, very close to harmony.

Oranges poured upwards, spraying their golden twiles merrily around Arthur's sitcom. He laughed wildly, took out a pair of turnips and stapled the Pope to the ceiling. Shabble-à-babble, hurrah! hurrah! Nay, sirrah. But Theodora exploded pretentio-pompously, erasing all traces of the void, and expunging the space-time continuum as with gobbets of junket. She gave birth to a basket, and they whipped meringue and shouted for yoy! For yoy! Many moans make light switch.