  MELANCHOLILY he chipped his morning egg, So human in its roundness that he felt A murderer, then lifted the too-small spoon Brimmed with slippery yolk. “Oh, no you shan’t Fall on my Sunday best.” How like a woman’s kiss It seemed to slither nudely down his throat. Glutinous amber. The tea, when milk had flecked it, Softening the vulgar cairngorm to a mere distinguished Nebulosity (pompous), nubiferousness (more pompous still), Was almost worth the drinking, although it lacked The romance of being specified Chinese. The fat round butter with the daisy on it, The daisy that he would soon decapitate, Looked over-salted, but then the bread was always Doughy and void of flavour. To-day the crust was black, as if the soot Had fallen on a country thatch ... the marmalade, Scotch and well streaked, smiled on in invitation. “My headache’s better now. We won’t be late. And Dr. Chitty’s preaching on Divorce.” TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. |
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