First to catch out eye are the zhooshy ombre coloured cushions, Stravklint, and duvet set, Pipstakra but that's just the tip of of the flatpack iceberg.

Though with a slash a Pomp’s gut he could slit, On his own work he worked his weaponed wit And penned with patient skill and lore immense Prodigious mind, keen ear, rare common sense, Only those words he could crush down no more Like matter pressured to a dwarf star’s core.

Thou diest on point of fox.

Whether all of the above was reason enough I don't know, but I left East St. Louis and, like a martin to its gourd, I headed back to the cotton fields of southeastern Missouri.