Commodus on the commode; the goose that laid the golden egg was killed by a gander; and too the Pax Americana; an event which Trumped the rule of a stoic's son, who sat upon his throne, cast in bronze (Le Penseur), his Meditations couplets, doggerel on bog roll, which he cleaves on his stool, and splits the Empire de pire en pire. How brazen and full of brass were these brass bronze brooches; it's a matter of tin and zinc, two coppers should cover it. My two-cents. Two Lincolns. Bicameral. A common Lord. Though a house divided against itself cannot stand. All one thing, or all another.All this carried electromagnetically from the bicameral mind of Mark Mortimer, a Pied Pipe(r), through the length of the Tube as a Sine Wave, somewhere near Kensington. He can hear someone's Train of Thought. Next is Phil Lynott. He's thin on Lizzies. Just one in either pocket so a pick-pocket has two pockets to pick from. Another, and then it's Charlie. Through that tube. Well, hindsight is twenty/twenty, like back to back.Age 40, Mark is an XL, and a medium. He clocks a woman, relatively close to him, and his pupils dilate. She is wealthy, but priceless, an Antoinette, a penny-royal, minted widely, but in Wrigley Field they chew Big League, so the analysts are bearish.
