Those who were drinking "sipped at long glasses of gluhwein, a delicious concoction of warmed burgundy, cinnamon and raisins, and chattered about the day's runs, about technical aspects of langlaufs, cornices, laniéres and christies.

And of course what was there possibly to be said that hadn't already been said about the dernier mot or the last word or the afterword or postscript or any number of other equivalent terms, in an interminable logic of the supplement, by Jacques Derrida himself?

For then their late Attracts decline, And turn as eager as prick'd Wine

Can you ship me the ketchup?