Lead me on, lead me on. Whither we tread, little we know, lest that which gathers in the bowels of Balso’s steed be shown. And we wouldnt want that, would we?
At second glance, perusing the annals of humour through the ages, I detect the strong thread of lower bodily strata. 4 fluids of the body, blood, phlegm, choler, and black bile – meandering, senseless through our vessel, undermining any sense of longevity or constitutional upright attitude. Pompeii’s toilette grafifiti, Rabelais’ bunghole, it’s much ado about Nothing, you say, but Nothing was so much in it’s day.
O’ my hinny, my nag, o’ beast of burden, yea milch cow, little lambkin mine. The little endearment bestowed upon the great horse. the great hollow horse, the great hollow horse who follows me back to the city wall, the city wall, waiting to enter.