Sometimes, again, as I plunge still deeper into the fascinating volume, a poem seems to fashion itself and leap from the burning page. Listen.
She hears not Park appealing
Nor Gerrard's wail of woe,
Her heart is on to Ealing
89200;
For there her true love (smartest
Of lcl plmbrs) speaks;
For him our switch-board artist
Puts powder on her cheeks.
For him, the brave, the witty,