some Wilburs inspire no spider-poets nor earn the love of Fern.
this pig shuns lipstick. his countenance admits no adornment.
ears perky, hairs erect, nose for mayhem acute, undulled, taste for anything. Orwell’s Napoleon commands our farm. cowed, we animals howl or growl assent to each assertion of fat cat dogma. Ham? I am. you speak newspeak? come wallow in the mud and muck with me. it’s warm; you’re welcome. the swamp now drained, the reptiles slither hither not yon.