She had an aura of ill physical chance. Matthew Clegg "So tonight, friends, I raise a glass to us In this ring of haplessness. We gateau-jugglers, knocked by an opening door; We home-truth-tellers in campfire rows Whom (flouncing bedward) guy-ropes neatly floor; It's our sidesplitting collapses That keep their world rotating on its axis. Of course, we know that they won't thank us For our public genius. My father, after niagaras of hock Poured from the highest shelf Through his protesting fingers, bowed not. As I fell out of the lift I sought no recognition of my gift. For they, who note a mere lack of luck See not our blessed knack But a divine, converse (convenient) rule With us subordinate to their Pathetic voices prophesying cool! Their lungs and sides bulge With mirth; and this it seems we must indulge For we're their servants. So acknowledged thus By them, and (in their world) us, We smile grimly through the mummy's bandage, We spool their inner comedy And seed the orchards of their anecdotage. But stop! They're not what this is about. Their world lets them make good, make out And tonight we drink to strength and nobleness And so we drink to us, Without whose art and hospitalising Farce, delivered punctual, Under budget and wholly without warning, None of those bastards Could probably drag themselves out of bed in the morning."
Random Descent 