Four pages later

blew up.

Did it? An apostrophe to the epistolary form — and why not? Will power — that three.

    At just that three (nearly seven, now) a flying milkjug (they don't all use saucers — some of them have mugs) landed and some biggish green inhabitants emerged. "Remember us?" they said, in proto-Indo-European, "we're back. It took a few millenia but — we learned your language. Just to show we're not into cultural imperialism. We merely intend to exterminate you — have a nice day."

    "Not bad, but you haven't quite grasped the idiom," said Professor Igloo. "Unfortunately we speak American now. So had better jolly well beetle off and learn it!"

That was an interjection on behalf of the plot. Now — back in the metatext... wordz-a-poppin. (ah yeah!)

"Anyone who can't spell 'millennia'." (Mr Mad)

Up we shall journey

Up we shall journey, to the wild wastelands of the North
Desperately wondering whether the voyage will be worth
it. And yet as we travel the distance to places afar
Our thoughts will turn to Liz at home, reading Glas.
We hope she will prove able to cope by herself
And that she won't consume anything deleterious to her health.

All that I would say to you is this — mind the text,
Liz, mind the text, lest you have a surfeit of it,
Wherefore we might have, on our return, to inform your next
of kin as to your impending insanity. But what of it —
It will now be apparent that I have difficulty
Making this rhyme ———

but tell me, o Liz, can I be blamed for this?
Is it a crime?

P.S. Don't be too garrulous here in our absence.
& have a good Easter moose.

Elk, eek

    Elk to the left of them, elk to the right of them
    Into the negative space
    Rode the five hundred moose

"Dark in here!" said some of them.

"Mooses in here!" said others.

"Elk!" said the elk.

"Text" wrote the text.

"Texting, texting, 1, 2, 3, texting," said the Moose.

"Eek, a moose!" screamed the early sixties sitcom woman.

{Drawing of a stick woman standing on a table, pointing at a tiny moose on the floor}.

Metamorphosis

THAT, TOO, OF COURSE,
BUT STILL COMPLETELY {In a triangle, with a picture of an elk} ELK.

elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elik elik elk elk elk elk elk elk elk text elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk elk text elk elk elk text elk elk elk text elk elk elk elk text elk elk text elk elk text elk elk elk text elk elk text elk text elk text elk elk text elk text text elk elk elk text elk text elk text text elk text text text text elk text text elk text text elk elk text text text text text text elk text elk elk text text text elk text text text text text text text text text elk text text text text text text text text text text elk text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text text ...

(the metamorphosis of the text!)

THAT, TOO, OF COURSE,
BUT STILL COMPLETELY {In a triangle, with a picture of a radioactive splodge} PURPLE.

"ALARM!" "ALARM!" "MAD!"

Drang nach Osten

{Musical notes} Es gibt zu viel Gibber im Buch

{Picture of a person with their hair on end, screaming "aaargh", within a barred circle} < deconstruction free zone

The moose glistened sideways, treading on Peter Quince's nose the while. The forest was filled with mooses, raspberry mooses, chocolate moooses, and moose factories. They had assembled for the fifth plenary session of the General Council for the Consistory of Deputies of Mooses. Their leader Usdaw was due to be deselected, but a huge swing on the moose-ometer had changed all that. Or was it rather a huge moose on the swingometer? Nobody seemed to know. Or care.

"Wow, some dream," mused Ernie, who (of course) drove the fastest milk cart in the West. But now was taking place the long awaited

>> DRANG NACH OSTEN >>

Will to Power to You Too — with umbrellas on!

Quince (Peter)

"Drags its long slow length like a wounded snake along." (Not necessarily in that. And is anything?) Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold! This truth is true... And what about your strange and divers ways, Peter Quince?

"Not I!"

"Disqualified — statement."

"Not I — except when I am."

"Qualified — disqualified," persisted Arthur. Peter Quince was the stupid one, but Peter Pears is dead.

"So have we started, then?" asked Quince, still confused, thus human, all too human.

"How should I know?" asked Arthur.

"Does that mean I should?" Quince (Peter) had begun to understand.

Dire critics and nested brackets

Meanwhile, back three spaces and miss a turn — bishop to king's third, gentleman's fourth — do not collect two hundred pounds. How often? Never! Really?

    "No..." Arthur doubted. "All seven? With olives? Seriously? Oval? Good Lord!" And that was just before tea.

    Afterwards, the city was empty. Windy windy. Those ubiquitous leaves and big papery detritus. Diacritics scurried villainously from drains. Dire critics collapsed in the streets. Those that were left trumpeted. Jean was alone, the speaker dumb, the writer dead, chairs chairs. Isn't it time for our lesson?

(because they lessened...)

And it was true, every last fact of it (Liverpool, no thank you, I don't disagree with mud in my pudding — pud! (in my mudding, through a long-winded (and largely tautologous set of rhyming couplets (of the Alexandrine style, as popularised so jibely by that (four-legget bandicoot of a pobble (nây, này, and quice náy (I speak of Mr(s) A.M. (F (S ((poobl(glun(k))))))))))))atishoo). Merci.