fOR sCROD*

Good morning Scrod, may the sky not fall on the tonsure of your heady-head. You, Scrod, are a mountblanche, a wastrel, a catechism without an offering plate. You are a boogieman, a phantasm, a Kantian nothing, an epistemic apology for bad reasoning, the poster-child for dullards and halfwits. You are the bent spoke in Mary Poppin’s umbrella, the silver in Carol’s mirror, the Gargantuan in Gargantua, the platitude in Shakespeare’s sonnets, the errata in Pound’s cake, a sandhog, a spinning wheel without a yarn-catch, a young cod, haddock split-cooked and served on a bed of wilt-lettuce, a latchkey without a keyhole. Good morning Scrod, may the sky not fall on your head.