Now o'er one half the Mudcat bullshit seems dead
And wicked facts abuse that troubled sleep.
Too many celebrate pale Aletheia's offerings,
And the withered Pseudologoi,
Alarmed by their sentinel the bull
Whose feces are their watch,
With Dolos' ravishing strides,
Moves like a ghost!
Oh, thou sure and firm-set dungheap!
Hear not my facts which way they wend
For fear the very plops prate of my truthlessness!

(A loud flatulation is heard)

I go, and it is done -- the flatus invites me!
Hear it not, for it is a bell
That summons thee to heaven -- or to someplace else.