Dear Sirs,
I should like to object most strongly to your gross misrepresentation of my opinions as published in this week's copy of your otherwise invariably accurate newspaper. Your article paints me as some sort of deranged imbecile, when in fact my comments on the sky made perfect sense. What I actually said was that the firmament should be auctioned off and the proceeds donated to the Amon Rûdh Drainage and Roof-Repair Fund; and that it should be replaced with an enormous portrait of me in the state regalia of string vest, false moustache, sou'wester and paper hat, with a chair leg in one hand and a leg of mutton in the other. Of course, children
will take up cannibalism if the sky remains in its current dull state; but under my stern gaze no such mischief will occur to them, which will leave more people for my own table. Also my poems were quite brilliant, and only the unbelievable stupidity of everyone who heard or read them has robbed me of my well-deserved critical acclaim. What discerning wight could fail to be moved by
Lines Written on Dropping My Toast?
Quote:
It fell down
Accidentally
All the way to the floor.
It probably now
Has all sorts of dust and grit stuck to it.
And tastes a bit manky as well.
But perhaps it has picked up
That long-forgotten piece of cheese
That hasn't quite been fossilised.
That would still be nasty, but a bit less so.
If toast were round, I could play frisbee.
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I promise that I am not currently manufacturing an explosive meringue for delivery to your offices, although I am.
Yours, etc.