I just sat down to start work on a lecture for my first year scholarettes, on Hamlet and its discontents, and I'd gotten so far as "I have a book in my office", which is obviously not a line that will feature prominently in the lecture, but I was getting my typing head into gear, when who should leap aboard the keyboard but Harriet, kitten and Shakespearologist extraordinaire. And thus typed Harriet:
fffffffffffffffffffggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh1``````q 3333
(transcribed verbatim from Microsoft Word document)
Having now solved literary studies, Harriet is practising her archaeology in the poo-tray.
6 comments:
The rest is silence.
It's what kittens say when they smell a rat behind the arras.
Ahhhhhhhhh, but of course!
As Beatrice was saying to me just last night, "How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world." That's kittens for you.
Timor Mortis Conturbat Bea: The song of the philosophical kitten
Joy is fleeting, transitory,
Meow, meow, meow.
I need to use the lavatory -
Meow, meow, meow.
I saw a mouse - the mouse saw me.
Meow, meow, meow.
I opened up my mouth for he -
Meow, meow, meow.
But he declined to be my tea
Meow, meow, meow.
Instead, that mouse began to flee -
Meow, meow, meow.
The flesh is brukeil, the fleish is slee -
Meow, meow, meow.
Timor mortis (etc)
Meow, meow, meow.
That's true, Tim. Very true. She also has a disturbing habit of licking Harriet's bottom.
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