I met a man
Where?
In a gutter. We were at once friends.
O homogeneities of cotemporaneous antiloxo-dromachy!
He would try to stand on his head. O divinely crapulent hysteron-proteron!
“Our meeting,” he said, is a palingenesis of Paradise; hast thou, O Philadelphian, hast thou eighteen pence?”
I embraced him—I wept, I have it not, I shrieked—or—
* * * * *
Whom do I love? Whom do I admire? Not two lounging in a carriage, but twelve bulging out of a cart.
I am not respectable. You are an idiot.