Oscar Eats Spam

The British, who have an odd relationship to food, preferring to go hungry, to starve, to slim, and to fast,

Are also a Spartan culture, or seafaring,

But in brine, and smell of iodine-redolent kelp and big tit tampon,

A warrior clan and culture,

In port, depraved, finessing the natives to lay bare their heart, their soul, their proletarian knoll, for coins minted without mint,

Plus, the industrial revolution begins in England, and not with the Magna Carta,

But Oscar, who was saying,

“Wait a minute here, this is good fun, and fun for all, a big feast, no junk food or empty calories, nor words, only words. We can spout in celebration, lubrication, condom-tampon, host an honest sweat, drive the serpants from Ireland, into Galillee, the deep dark sea, the red– bold blood and wine sea– the silver screen, and Greek silver gleaned, and rush around a mountain of mixture– swansea– “

Oscar, exhausted, gets out on wailing bail, bailey oneill, a Greek warrior, from distant battle frail, to announce, eaon, anon, to his two sons,

“It is fun. Word play is fun. Dancing in the sun– is fun.”