FELL PUMP TO THE SERVER
I traded away all my assets for this corsair to
sail the seven seas - now I can cruise with
alacrity. All my cities are the saucepan wherein
I singe my goo : Turino and Milan, Marseilles
Nice and Taranto too. I want for nothing,
big-bottomed girl, my broom will clean
out your gutter. The mediterranean, oh dear,
isn't anything to worry over : no more weird
creatures, no more shoals and rocks. We just
end up on some olive-oil island, listening to
the weather talk, and drinking all that local
wine. Nothing better will make it wetter.
And now! Now, so long after disaster,
I've given up thinking, even given
up sending my mother a card.
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