That galah nearly drove me off the road.

A truth beswathed by the cover of lies.

Wherefore, at times, as if in ancient mould / He looms, bepatched with paint […]

[…] spouting part of the briny Ocean in wantonnesse out of their oylie pipes bored by nature atop their prodigious ſhoulders, like ſo many floating Ilands concomitating us.