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Problem: bad, vaguely-maudlin dada poets speaking in public
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| Lo, for I am smitten with the trite, I am infeted with blight, or at least I might, gabba, gabba hey... | |
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American solution: Kill them
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| Lackaday! For I am slain! | |
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British solution: colonize them and force them to listen to trivial gossip about a powerless anachronishm of a monarchy until they revolt
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| Take a bloody number. Did you see what Charles was wearing the other day? Blimey! | |
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