Veni, Vidi, Dormivi--
It came upon me, last Thursday, that I returned home to Willy-Wompus-Whole-Upon-Hamptonshire in relatively good STATION. It seem'd, rather strangely, that the city churls of London were in a CURIOUS and LUSTY disposition, devoid of all SPIRITS, empty of all HUMOR, entirely set upon the task, for this and all times, of REMOVING our current Prime Minister, Lord Rathbone Comelywad, from office, RANK, and good ESTATE. Surprise be it to me that, crossing the stony threshold of my humble doorjar, I weighted and Lifted my money-purse to find it BORNE of a many folded BILLS and bountiful COIN. They had not bothered to rob me! I came into the kitchen, at a Gentle Jog, seeking Maragaret, to tell her of my luck and Rare Fortune, when I heard a FAINT and HOMELY sound from my nether-regions. "HARK! What be this?" I exclaimed, in shock and question, soundly ROBBED of my good cheer: "Who is this that sounds up to me from my Earthly Loins?"
"Me!" It shouted, not rude or lewd or at a clip UNKIND: "Me, your humble kidney-stone! Housed safely in your noble CROTCH, composed wholly of your noble seed and PARTICAL. Long, Lord Windus, have you drank full well and strongly in the city-pubs of London, in the Baker Homes of Southwark, and the gentleman parlors of Knightsbridge Row. And long have I sat couched within you, observing your SPEECH, your WORD, and Noblisse, being composed all the while from the wheaty germ of ALES and LAGERS that softly WASHED within you. The Times we've had, sir!"
"Yes, yes!" I managed, in Poor Condition, to resound. "London has been a gift, a respite from the DUTIES of home and WIFE and the all of Willy-Wompus-Whole-Upon-Hamptonshire. An ASYLUM, gentle kidney-bean!"
"Well, good sir, London is your duty now! Oh, how I've seen it bred into churlishness. DIPPED into ill-repute and SLOTH. No PAMPHLETEER, even with a golden tongue or gooseberry ink, or a weeks stay picking apples beneath Mount Parnassus, could TRUMPET the noble cause of reform like you, Sir Windus. How I beg you, good sir! WRITE! WRITE!"
And with no more word, I sat upon my desk to compose this HUMBLE treatise, so as to give our noble ISLAND, our Mother Home of ALBION, its hope. Long have our MINISTERS been all but PRIME, and this flippant list of their FOLLIES is all I could Summon to Ward off Comelywad's CORRUPTION and RAPACIOUS Scowling Composition. He is not so bad, as I shall show, and, in DESCRIPTION of our UNSCRUPULOUS PAST, I wish to show the ENGLISHMAN across our land that our nation will move forward. Comelywad is not so horrible a SCOUNDREL, just one upon a list of them. I pray you accept this simple BALM, a lotion to clear the crack'd pores of our collective country and disposition, with the SPIRIT, HUMOR, and EARNESTNESS with which it was created. Qui Tacet consentit--
1. Lord Rathbone Comelywad: It should be of no surprise or question, to any Good gentleman of sound character and CONSTITUTION, or to even a city street sweeper of the faintest familiarity with the Pure Blood Clan, that the Noble Comelywad's should Produce such an iminent Character as Rathbone Comelywad, and one fit for an office of entirely the highest order: Prime Minister. However, the great scallywag has proven his weight in stone, as we say in Willy-Wompus-Whole-Upon-Hamptonshire. Yes, he was a Just and Fair warrior, fighting in the Dutch Lowlands, and his Mighty Frame with its dragon-tipped musket and copper colored balls were Celebrated nigh-upon-only a year ago by the poet Rooker Robinson in his ballad, of the Irish style, "Rathbone's Copper-COLORED Balls and Shaft." But, pray, what has become of this Lusty Bachelor and his Celebrated Shaft? Just last week the Pugnacious Parliament convened to question his FITNESS for office. Where had the London Bureau city funds go? Had they really been STOLEN, REARRANGED, and used so Full Sinfully as to Fill Comelywad's estate with MARBLES? The City Planner swears by Mary's milky bosom that they had! Juniper! And his taste for Chocolate Truffles from Brussels is ASTOUNDING. All day, it is whispered, in unsavory and odiferous CORNERS of the city that it is Rathbone that stole the White Chapel Belgian Truffles for himself. STEALING truffles from ORPHANS! But, yay, Comelywad is not the worst, as my Lords and Ladies will observe and approve judiciously, I pray.
2. Sir William Houndstooth Pennybeggar: I trust I stand on Terra Firma when I say that never have we had such a scandal, an UTMOST headache Politic than when the Maggot Snuggling Lord of Essex Wessex's Land was APPOINTED to the Highest Office in the Mother Government at London. Imagine! Caught en flagrante delecto with his Bed Chamber Maid, an Irishwomen at that! Loud CARNAL pleasures not alone, the REGAL Pennybeggar was known to walk with his STOMACH angled outwards, in a PORTLY fashion, his nose pointed in the air, at no small degree, and on no more than FIVE occasions was caught walking past LADY PEN-STUART without giving the CUSTOMARY suckle of her left nipple. OUTRAGEOUS!
3. Tobias Trumbler aka. "The French Fop": What a sight! What a true GAGGLE of DISGRACE! To have a MINISTER, his hands fully ahold the reigns of our dear country, with hands in such a FEMININE and WOMANLY CONDITION. I swear, by Jove and Odin both, his HANDS were a'perfum'd and PAINTED, a powdery pink, not unlike a catomite's nipple! His manners were reformed, true, and FLATTERING, but his leaning was FRENCH, his education too broad, and his HAIR a dastardly BLUE! Well known it was, in MANY a circle, ranging far and wide as upermost as the NORTHERN Realms of Scot-a-land, that he lived in FRANCE for Fourteen years and may have been a COURTIER in Louis' Rapturous Palace. Never did he lay a hand to ALE, only sherry, and never was he seen with a Woman's breast gently nuzzled between thumb and forefinger, or even his MOUTH! His DEMEANOR was not atall WarLike, nor BOLD, and his SECRET TIES to France were not so SECRET a fin.
Aye--My strength has left me. I must go wind the clock. My Kidney-Stone be slaked, for want of words have I not succeeded, just lack of wit. I humbly REQUEST you take this HUMBLE composition as WHAT it is. None the more, nor the less. May God stroke your FORTUNES as he may. And may Jesus have mercy on our terrible SOULS.
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