Yesterday I ate mushroomsoup with Santa. He said:
Ho my boy. Don't you be messing with the ale before finishing your round.
So he said, and I perceived to be sound. I looked down to my dish, thinking how much I have behind me. I raised my spoon, dripping. I said:
Thou hast wronged me. Thine damp and hazy eyes cannot ransack my soul. But lo and behold. The fog is rising. Through mist and fog I shall ride my mount true, clouds of hatred giving way to my living hearts' sun.
So I stated, leaving the spoon without anyone to wield.