T. S. Eliot had his legion of followers: the immaculate minor poet armaturing in exquisite technique a mildewed softness, and living a reminiscent universe which never existed.
They tried to reduce their turnaround on incoming paperwork.
Pen jumped out of the carriage then, his carpet-bag in hand, and briskly determined to face his fortune.
[…] the wild gyrations of the Big Apple, in which everyone formed a circle and ended with a bumpsadaisy, and the Lambeth Walk, […]
Big Apple,
bumpsadaisy,
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