Pleasant after-noon, My Lords and My Ladies. It is nigh ten before the fourth hour, and your humble servant is on the hunder-ed thousand horseless driven chariot, racing the Sun towards that most desired place of rest, my domicile.
As today marks the celebration of the Bard throughout the vast stretches of that City of Big Shoulders, this condensed account of fellow travellers is dedicated to Sir William Shakespeare. I can but do meager justice to his cunning linguistics. In my own sordid past, I have encountered thespians and scribes having far greater skill than this poor accountant who could, with a grand flourish of pollysyllaby, render the Bard’s style as if He hath put mind to word to parchment (or text box) Himself.
The knave once identified as Clive Owen has settled into his station some two yard lengths from my sight, across the median used for ingress and egress. The depraved soul doth poisons his mind with efflua, spewing forth like the scream of a Banshee on the Moors, from that demonic device dropped from the forges of Job(s), inspired by the work of both Hephaestus and Dionysus, rendering the misbegotten fellow expressionless and lifeless.
Zounds! The comedic thespian Sir John Cleese hath just risen from his place to disembark the chariot of pilgrims. The stupefying air being ejected into the compartment commits all but the most stoic o’er restless fatigued and in slumber. Sir John nearly missed his desired stop.
Your forgiveness I must humbly request, for I am a neophyte and a passing admirer of the Bard’s stylings. I fear I have butchered the English and the Angle-ish languages with my fitful attempts at Shakespearean meters and cadence. Please revisit this travelogue on the ‘morrow, in the hopes this history will be better codified.
Exeunt (stage left).