FUN.
Fun is the soul’s vent.
Fun iz whare the kruditys eskape, where she kiks up her heels, and runs snorting around the lot, unhaltered, and az eager az an eskaped konvikt.
Fun iz a safety-valve that lets the steam preshure oph from the biler, and keeps things from bussting.
Fun iz the dansing particles, which fli oph from the surface ov unbottled cider, it iz the senseless frolik ov the spring lam in the clover, it iz the merry twinkle that kreeps down tew 94 the korner ov the parson’s eye, to stand in the sunlite, and see what’s going on.
Fun iz az karliss az a kolt, az happy az a bridegroom, and az silly az a luv-sik skool-girl.
Fun iz the holy day wisdum ov the sage, the phools pholly, and everyboddys puppet.
Next tew the virtew in this world, the fun in it iz what we kan least spare.
Truly! O! truly!