Iridescent onyx, pale depths of sombre pitch and sway of a deck in some ancient gale. A thousand coats of atramentum tectorium will not hide sable stains of charcoal thoughts.
Narcissus-X had that dream again: Grim penguins with loon-red eyes rise up and cry, "where are the fish? There ought to be fish! We must have our fish!"
Then the red soil of Biwabik and Buhl trembled as malignant moose meandered meaninglessly while manic mice munched moorings and mansions crumbled.
But terrible penguins abound in unrelenting malice, marching, marching, marching to the sea. Their eyes of flame! Loon-red eyes of flame! Loon-red eyes of flame, transfixing gaze of illimitable malevolence, rancor without end, vicious venom of vindictiveness piercing flesh and mind. Will none defend the borogoves? Must the vorpal sword be drawn? Begone! And leave my sight! Banquo's inheritance is secure, but at what cost?
Both heard alike, but the choice! The choice!
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