Irony is dead, my friend, when before a book of psalm I learned to teach myself anew the ways of truth, when mortal soul flew back to me. For no pollution of mind may taint the allegory of unending search. The beacon bright and cutting burns the layers of sour flesh from my weathered back – my vehicle I learn to wax. It is not a cold beer at dawn that slaughter the righteous, but the fear thereof, and so with slathered platter I doeth stuff my greedy face as I rejoice. This meal is choice.