So human in its roundness that he felt
A murderer, then lifted the too-small spoon
Brimmed with slippery yolk. “Oh, no you shan’t
Fall on my Sunday best.” How like a woman’s kiss
It seemed to slither nudely down his throat.
Glutinous amber. The tea, when milk had flecked it,
Softening the vulgar cairngorm to a mere distinguished
Nebulosity (pompous), nubiferousness (more pompous still),
Was almost worth the drinking, although it lacked
The romance of being specified Chinese.