In the pantheon of scribes venerated by the canine amassment, supreme nonpareil rub shoulder to shoulder Messrs. Will and John. Such do towering Shakespeare and Keats stand in regard and much nether-region sniffing.
For non if no, Shakespeare it was penning in his sonnet “If only a rake bit of cash would welcome such couplets” the first proven appearance of the autochthonous, “Are you a good boy?”
Such to follow would be centuries of proof as wagging of tail and heads to furiously nod.
And Keats — such master! — full said in the telling and complete of most glorious use in ritual found in the astute “Ode to a Well Chewed Posterior.”
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Giant gentlemen, the both!
But alas, a third lies misforgotten. The drover monk turned science philosopher, much in misty memory abeds one Sir Rufus Ochs Ottovordschenfelde. For he …
Hold on. I hear a random noise outside. Gotta go act the fool.
Nice. Now in continuation.
Sir Rufus, it is, much revered for his treatise medieval …
Dang! Was that a kitchen cabinet being opened? Be right back.
Nope. Double dang.
… his treatise medieval “Slumber Nods in Most Repose a Dormancy to Catch a Few Z’s Now and Again and Again and, Unquestionably, Again.”
A triumph! Insight searing into archetype. Homo sapiens sapiens called to shame for its sneers. Likely is not the shuteye the mechanism for appurtenance?
Indeed and for sure. And championed most perceptively by that great one whom back I drag from lapsed mindfulness. He shall always be one of the three: Shakespeare. Keats. Ottovordschenfelde.
Now, where’s my biscuit?
Cool Kid note: I hope you enjoyed Cam’s first attempt at writing. I know it was a bit ruff.