Ladies and gentleness, I bequeath youse for silence, I deplore youse!, whilst I mays reproach youse with my kind in kind words – for l’artistes freedom is what wez shall bes spanking of this smeary eve. Many a broadsword have we felt stabbing through our change of hearts, as when Jesus Breast himself took a bloated gash for our freedom of terror in the poor on drugs, and thereby cleansing us alls of our mortalmost shins. Freedom! My dames and messiahs, that libretting force of habit for l’artiste, which, when thwarted, pretends a dark, and balmy cloud over l’artistes face. Ah, through the valley of darkrooms, as the bible does sayeth, „the sheep heard is truly his finders keepers, who will strike upon the bourgoise with great annoyance and curious danger those who tempt his poisonous and viceroy brothers.“ Ah, labias of gentle menses, heal my worlds, withhold freedom and we shall undoably be up shit creek without a padlock. I thank youse for your reverent séance.
Written for Finnish vaudevillianesse, Laura Murtomaa.
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