Time after the holidays tends to find me mulling over olde yarns of wisdom. These kernels that stick in the teeth of your brain are at worst unpickable, and at best unflickable. This year, the loot Saint Nick procured for me was fairly vast, though not infinitely so. Despite the enviable sheen of my spoils, I still felt something was lacking. In a bout of soul-searching, I turned to a reliable adage:
Though turn, turn ye do
Through ∫pinning ∫tyles of ∫teeléd bone
Clamping pence-pur∫e from hand to hip,
Thine weathered greav∫e collap∫e
In concert with cracked cobble∫tone
Exhau∫tion bru∫heth clo∫er this grail acro∫s your lip.
And so did I emerge from Best Buy victorious.
subhumanzoids 