(I left out the salient and essential fact that he had his Martin case under his arm when he made his death defying dive straight across the proximate laps of the Divine Gaelic Goddess and the sedentary, but rhythmic (if glaring) tortoise, Saggy-butt yclept. ) The songster rapidly straightened himself, swept off his slouch hat with a little bow, and settled in on the forward sta'b'd jumpseat.

"Well," he asked, "do you like it?" :>))