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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 247
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 09, 2003 - 5:46 pm: | 
|
AP, you've done it again! Brilliant stuff. I particularly liked the strange wormhole, and the section from "scratch that card" to the end, but the whole thing grabbed me completely. Can't wait for "Imperfect Reflection Thor"!
I'm working on a slightly strange poem. It's rather disjointed and disorganized, but it's meant to be - in fact, it isn't as yet disorganized enough. Will post when finished.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 250
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 10, 2003 - 12:32 pm: |
|
Hi AP
SAFELY CAGED
Heads lolling from side to side,
Dribbling mouths gaping wide,
Aimless eyes, lost, unseeing,
Old gentlemen their trousers peeing,
Hugging themselves on hard stool rocking,
Empty lives away tick-tocking.
Oh mother! Why do you not come
To fetch your frightened weeping son,
Or tell me what it is I’ve done?
Surely you are outside, near?
Take me from this place of fear.
If I scream, perhaps you’ll hear!
But now come the beatings,
And the sad meetings
Of haters and hated,
Baiters and baited.
Sharpened sticks between bars thrusting,
Kind souls keep the mind from rusting.
And yesterday’s bruise
Is already old news.
Something I find slightly queer :
Like outside, don’t know why I’m here.
Here’s like the outside – screaming and shouting.
Here’s like the outside – cursing and clouting.
Here’s like the outside – life but a rambling.
Here’s like the outside – graveward scrambling.
Some people say the world is round
But that’s a lie, for I have found
Its jagged edge and pitiless Law :
Once falling, fall for evermore.
The world is square...Square...SQUARE!
Voices in head
That cry to be fed!
There’s nothing like a solid noun
To steady nerves when you are down.
In lifeless things there is no frown,
Lifeless things won’t let you down.
Table, ceiling, walls and chair
Papers over cracked despair.
Table, ceiling, walls and chair
Banishes a world of care,
Banishes a bloody Square.
That wall’s too short to climb,
And far too tall my time.
It wasn’t me at bloody Square!
Table, ceiling, walls and chair!
Why my hair all shot with grey?
Only came here yesterday.
O devil voices in my brain!
Are you real, or born of pain?
I call you Nothing, yet you come.
So will I go, that you’ll be dumb.
Just like outside, this our life –
Save at meals we have no knife.
Knife...KNIFE...KNIFE!!!
Table, ceiling, walls and –
Table, ceiling –
Table?
Let my mouth be aneled
With wax and sealed,
Years of dumb peace,
A half-way release,
Turn down the light,
And snuggle in night,
May all my hours
Be unopened flowers,
Curl into ball
Beyond help or call :
Blind worm of grief,
Burrow beneath!
Something strange is in the air,
Eyes begin to fix and stare,
Walls are crumbling, room is rocking,
Sky is tumbling, doors unlocking,
Snapping of chains that dragged the past –
I think they’re letting me out at last.
Into the light
Or eternal night.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 278
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 10, 2003 - 1:29 pm: |
|
Robert
absolutely excellent, enjoyed 'safely caged' from start to end... the section beginning with table, ceiling, walls and chair was the best, almost like the mantra someone would use in a place like Broadmoor to make it all go away, and I could see our lunatic chanting this forever.
It hadn't yet occured to me to look at Tom Tom once he was caged, so you beat me to that one.
I'm afraid I started part Whore last night but left the rough version on the boat when I disembarked in a cloud of fine brandy fumes.
Much like Hemingway when he jumped off the train in Paris and watched it disappear towards Moscow with his first version of 'For whom the bell tolls' and its bells were atolling and he knew for whom. At least mine was only a poesie and not an entire book. I shall just have to rewrite it, shame, I felt it the best part yet. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 252
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 10, 2003 - 2:15 pm: |
|
Thanks, AP. I hope you manage to recall/rewrite your poem OK. It's horrible to forget something important.
A friend of mine once did a joke : Isaac Newton sitting under the apple tree. Apple lands on his head. Holds up his finger and says "Ah!" Second apple falls on head. Rubs his head and says, "I'm sure I had an idea a minute ago!"
Robert |
Capricorn 714
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 10, 2003 - 2:55 pm: |
|
Predator
I know you
I see you
And now,
I have to kill you
You are my enemy,
sworn to be
Only one predator walking these streets
Out of Fear, or respect
I dont't care and It don't matter
But people step aside when my shotgun splatters
It's this flavor
That I savor
Of the crack whore
Who is my neighbor
A former beauty queen who now looks like sh*%
Turning trick after trick just to get her fix
I got rocks in my pockets
I'm strapped with rockets
40 caliber love
I'll give you some of
If you ever get brave enough to put your grill in my mug |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 279
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 11, 2003 - 2:50 pm: |
|
Imperfect Whore For Reflection
And in the mirror spat and born
Was an image imperfectly drawn.
Thrown down and cast in clay
To rise again on Judgement day.
And did he stroke that razor edge
When in sharp steel he did pledge
All of womanhood to despise
And to see them all suffer and die?
With rip and rant
And curse and cant
He did stick and lick
And finger pick.
His way through strange feast
Arranged for a special beast.
And last morsel was not least
Until he swallowed last piece.
For when he looked in the mirror
He saw not himself.
When he looked in the mirror
He saw someone else.
Mirror talked to him in vision
Taught him how to reach decision
Taught him how to make incision
Taught him how to cause collision.
Twixt heaven and earth
Life, death and birth.
To advance time
Was mirror’s rhyme.
To push forward space
And win that race.
To never say never
And live forever.
In a cutting…
Or clip.
In a stabbing…
Or slit.
Oh that slit and that tit
Which he could not fit.
So he cut it bit by bit
By fire he lit
To guide his blade
In heaven made.
And thanked the Lord
For sharp sword
And perfect reflection
Of his own perfection.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 260
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 11, 2003 - 3:46 pm: |
|
Great stuff, AP, dealing with your ideas on the killer's artistic mentality and his religious obsessions. "Thrown down and cast in clay" was a marvellous line, and the ambiguity of "Which he could not fit" was very clever. AP, I constantly find myself admiring your ability to vary the pace of the poem, it's not dee-da dee-da all the time. I hope I can learn a few tricks from you!
I've got a humorous one still not finished, but I think that Uncle Charles should perhaps be given a poem. Do you want to do him, or shall I have a go?
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 280
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 11, 2003 - 4:58 pm: |
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Robert
Thank you for the kind words.
I think we both should do an Uncle Charles Henry, but you go first as I'd be interested to see what you think about him - from the little we know - and then I'll reply in the guise of the Uncle Charles that I think I know.
An interesting experiment.
Uncle Charles will reply to uncle Charles.
I think it of import to drag formal poetry off its usual rails and let it fly down the track without a driver... it will crash.
But I like that.
I'm tired of the mirror now, so let's do good old Uncle Charles... you first.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 261
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 11, 2003 - 6:26 pm: |
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OK, AP, but it'll probably take me two or three days. My poem may lack a driver, but it will probably be the slow train. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was overtaken by the humorous poem. Anyway, I'll have a bash.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 271
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 14, 2003 - 9:32 am: |
|
Hi AP
IMPERFECT DETECTION
The Catholics block the sun,
And make my life unliveable,
Their Cardinals ‘twixt me and the One
Who alone can forgive unforgivable.
Picking hole
In my soul,
Peeping in
At my sin.
Prying priests and smirking saints,
And Virgin idol the artist paints,
With her magical, worshipped womb,
Hide the light in the gathering gloom.
Curse this feeble female fashion
For scum-loving soft-hearted tender compassion,
Poisoning the towns and streets,
Poisoning the food I eat,
Putting pain
In my brain,
Idolatry and faith profane.
But I created the strangest creature,
Oozed from his mother but stamped by his teacher,
A figure of wax, a sick, lonely fellow
With eyes too dark and skin too yellow.
Ego te absolvo, my son.
Ego absolvo my loaded gun.
For I took that tiny figure,
Swivelled him round and pulled his trigger.
Gave him dominion o’er all the streets,
And Tom Tom drumming began to beat.
Mary and Ann I hate like no other,
For Mary is idol and Ann was her mother –
Dark Annie, and Mary Ann Eddowes and Nichols
Were scythed by Tom Tom’s blood-drenched sickles.
Hail Mary, loved and adored
With every night she binged and whored!
He shoved her magical womb ‘neath her head –
Immaculate contraception in bed,
Lest this Mary and Joseph produce
Antichrist on world to let loose.
And he cut heart of Mother Church,
Gave a tug, pulled it out with a lurch,
Flung it on the filthy coke
And let her ascend to Heaven in smoke.
Flail Mary beneath my rod :
Papists, behold the Mother of God!
Te absolvo, my loaded gun,
But when your work was finally done
I locked you safely in cabinet,
And waved goodbye with fond regret.
But Tom Tom beat is still a-drumming,
Think I see a figure coming.
Tom Tom picking jagged hole,
Tom Tom peeping in my soul,
Tom, accusing arm upraised,
Rips and stabs my brain guilt-crazed.
Drumming beat is unabating,
And a second gun is waiting.
Gun in hand I crawl to kitchen,
Tom Tom beat my finger twitching.
Now I know, I’m mad as hatter...
I won’t hear the shatter.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 281
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 15, 2003 - 3:59 pm: |
|
Robert
My apologies. I have been away.
'Imperfect Detection' is astounding, the sort of stuff I was hoping to see once this thread was started, a real launch into the unexplored regions of our Jack, and this is space shuttle stuff. Superb. Loved every word and turn of the coin.
Now, how the hell am I supposed to reply to that?
I will.
So busy at the moment, immersed in ancient tombs and rhymes, did Carter know the whereabouts of Alexandra's tomb or not as he claimed - he used ley lines to find Tutankhamen's - so why not?
Give me a day or so and I will respond accordingly.
Magic poem, Robert.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 272
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 15, 2003 - 4:58 pm: |
|
Thank you for those comments, AP. No need at all for apologies, and no need to rush your reply - what you're doing now sounds pretty interesting!
Two or three years ago, with the aid of a book, I "learned to read the hieroglyphs" - in other words, decipher a few basic inscriptions. And I'm afraid that since then my knowledge of the language has remained at the same rudimentary level - it's not the sort of language one bumps into every day! But it was a fascinating culture, with awesome architecture.
Thank you again for your comments.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 282
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 16, 2003 - 4:55 pm: |
|
A Fearful Drumming Sound
In what fearsome fire forged in molten steel
And thrown down on god’s spinning wheel
Was this sharp bone from some good meal
Emblazoned with the Devil’s own seal?
With what driven devil’s engine frame
Boiled in blood and then drenched in rain
Coiled in hate and crippled with blame
Did this cripple run until he became lame?
He were but cog in round and round
Hell for glory and hell bent for bound
And in that sharp whisper were no sound
And not a single reply could be found.
Spluttered and splattered
Whore rag tag and tattered
Whore red slag and battered.
Whore red dead and shattered.
‘ So I drunk rum
To forget the scum
To forget that papal bless
And forget blessed rest.
That blasted scum
God’s will be done
Clap pistol to me head
And send Satan to bed.
Blasted syphilis does scratch and itch
But little Tom Tom will kill the bitch
That vex me most sound and sore
It caught from pus-ridden whore.
Four pence for me
Four pence to see
How that bitch could stretch
And devil’s bucket fetch
To catch that rich red water
That fell from Catholic daughter.
Scum on earth and scum at birth.
Bastard priests with holy biscuit wafer
They can stick and shove their saviour
For I have gun by my side
And much more beside.
Prancing catholic scum
Have me own position undone.
Aye, that drumming will begin
And marshal in the sin
And all will march to its beat
And all will feel its heat
As rancid pope turn to smoke
And out will come this joke.
Female form is but bundle of stinking flesh
Wrapped in blood and disguised by dress
With tits and slits
And other nasty bits.
Out will come that worm
As that fire begin to burn.
And I have the hand on the fire
Me own fine funeral pyre.
I go gladly and not a bit sadly
For you are all but the sum
Of Catholic scum.
So because of the itching
I will go to kitchen
And there take gun
To bring undone
Damn and blast
The spell I cast.
For it were a powerful spell
Carried on wind from hell.
It carried god’s own flaw
To flay the whore
And leave her cut and sore.
Of one thing there is no doubt
It was me who sent him out.
I sent him out to try and save
All humanity from common grave.
I would pick that scab
With thrust and jab
And twist and turn
And boil and burn.
I could not resist temptation
In search of me own redemption.
Only blood could assuage that need
To see Catholic bitch bleed.
You see I was infected with the seed.
I carried that bitch
And carried that itch.
It were my child bastard bred
And on Catholic corn fed.
She were me own blood I bleed
Bastard Catholic seed.
And she did gleefully sap
My own blood with the clap.
He were but my own sweet child
Born of sister when defiled.
Devil’s brew and Devil knew
What he do.
Catholic scum
God’s will done
In kingdom come.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 276
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 16, 2003 - 5:53 pm: |
|
Well, AP! I think you won that round. A super poem, several steps further down the road than mine, and very, very dark indeed. I can quite see how Uncle Charles would be prone to strange behaviour if he believed all these things. And presumably he'd be caught in a vicious circle of self-justification and guilt (hence the suspicion of being poisoned).
Where does Uncle Charles go from here? Shall I do another Uncle Charles, or what?
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 283
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 16, 2003 - 6:08 pm: |
|
Robert
Go for another uncle charles.
I'm sure you can best me.
Thank you for the kind words.
My view is incest. Poetically that is.
A hatred of faith usually begins with a betrayal of faith.
Get to it. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 279
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, June 16, 2003 - 6:34 pm: |
|
OK, AP. It will be another slow train job, I should think - for one thing, there seem to be more stations than before!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 284
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 17, 2003 - 4:14 pm: |
|
A Fearful Drumming Sound Begins
Thomas! Bring me knife and me blessed gun
For thirsty work must in god’s name be done.
Now you stab me here on me lower arm
And see if you can’t carve strange charm,
And then carve same in me leg just for fun
To ward off them evil Catholic scum.
Stab me here boy, and stab me there
Stab me anywhere you see me flesh bare.
Might be best if you stab me in chest
Then just casually prick over the rest.
Now son, god’s will, will be done
In bloody Catholic kingdom come.
They put papal poison in the water
And papal knights rape me daughter.
Me own wife they put to the knife
So it was to your aunt I went
One night down there in Kent.
So I’m your brother
And your aunt your mother.
You bastard itch pass me gun
For I’ve a mind to kill you son.
As there are many things I’d rather
Be than bastard son’s father.
Just slice me up with that fine knife
And after that you can slice me wife.
Now then Tom-Tom you fine young thing
It’s out on street game will finally begin.
We’ll send you out to silence them bores
And hack up a few old whores
We’ll give ‘em their holy scripture
And virgins blood red in picture.
Here boy, drink this white sound
And bring me back flesh by pound
From whores who be willing
To sell for less than shilling
That what good god did create
That what good god did make
And that what good god will take.
By god! I have thirst to slake.
Go boy, go to the Catholic ridden street
And there by god a great havoc wreak.
Carve a path through this pack
Go my son and be this Jack.
Go and carve and cleave
And not a morsel leave.
For I want all on my table
To eat when I am able.
And some fine red wine
To wash down my design.
As I am your true brother
So each whore is your mother.
For you know now what they have done
And how they have kingdom undone.
For they have born the flesh of the fruit
And doing so have poisoned the root.
And we are but worm in bud
Born and baptised in blood.
Go son, go and sow that blighted seed
And make them Catholic whores bleed.
Go and grub out that root
Go! Stab that shoot…
Now leave me boy and kill some whore
Leave me boy for me wounds are sore.
Ah, but afore you go, just a nick here
For I have that urge again I fear.
Go on kid of mine, just a quick slice
Nice and deep and deep and nice.
That blade do make me quiver
And the blood shake and shiver.
Wash it down with gin
To help dilute the sin.
And now good bandage strap
It will help repel the heavenly clap.
So leave me now, you repulsive chap.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 282
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 17, 2003 - 5:01 pm: |
|
Uncle, brother, dad - whatever,
Do I have to waste shoe leather
Punishing me poor old feet
Pounding out that killing beat,
Ripping 'neath a twinkling star,
Whistling "I'm my own grandpa"?
Me family tree, I'd like to hack -
I wish that I were Lumber Jack.
And why oh why, dear old Boss
Must I sleep in filthy doss
When I could be home in bed
With the servant girl instead?
And isn't it an awkward stunt
This ripping, when me knife's gone blunt?
Fifty-four I killed last week -
I don't get time to take a leak.
I've carved you up so much, I fear
No place remains that's carving-clear.
If you want more carving, mate,
You're going to have to put on weight!
Re the poison, 'twould be safer
If you brought own wine and wafer
Or a glass of gin and tonic
To see you through the sermon chronic
(But don't touch ginger beer demonic).
But anyway
This I'll say :
Nietzsche reckons God is dead,
But the servant girl isn't - I'm off to bed.
Tom |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 285
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 17, 2003 - 5:35 pm: |
|
Now Tom-Tom you might be me boy
but you be puppet and not some toy.
Strange thing be even stranger thing
for it be me who pull your thin string.
You must leave that serving wench quite alone
for she be me own flesh, blood and bone.
It were but simple need
to spread some strange seed.
Now I be quite drunk and dead in head
so with serving wench I'll retire to bed.
You get on your feet
and out on the street.
And sharpen that knife
to take some life.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 284
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, June 17, 2003 - 6:31 pm: |
|
I see your needs are unabated -
There's none to whom you're unrelated!
Every time you take a sup
You string another puppet up.
And so (I hope it's not disloyal)
I ask, have I connection royal?
Would it be bizarre, uncanny,
If Queen Victoria was my granny?
What did you do on those trips to Balmoral?
Speak, sir! Was it aught immoral?
I'm going to find it quite a wrench
To leave that comely serving wench
And go out on cold night to kill,
Catching whores and catching chill.
Just one thing (and here's the rub) :
Serving wench by me's in club!
Tom |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 286
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 2:37 pm: |
|
Tom-Tom I’ll thank you for your cheek
And just remember not to speak
Until you have been spoken for
By that mother whom I call whore.
Related to royalty?
And then question me loyalty?
You are a scab, young son of mine
And it is upon your kidneys I will dine.
For I am for me Queen, country and crown
And for driving pesky catholics out of town.
You are but in club of swells
Who all live out individual hells.
A club of club-footed freaks
Of such club do I speak.
Now on your feet and limp away
With you I’ll play another day.
So have serving wench if you must
For I will in old rule trust
And not fall in that old trap
For serving wench has the clap.
So itch away my dear young chap.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 287
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 4:30 pm: |
|
Yea, wench hath clap, dear Uncle C.
You'll find she caught it straight from me.
But just so Uncle gets his due
I pass her on from me to you,
And though she's just caught plague bubonic
I hope she'll prove a healthy tonic.
The ripping lark is getting slow,
For everywhere I seem to go
There's some hospitable PC
Insists I have a cup of tea -
Which tends to really hold me up
(Until at least the fiftieth cup).
But now I have a job on hand
With Papist connection that you'll understand.
I'm speaking of violets and mother's grave,
And now I'll your Indulgence crave :
Each coin that in the coffer rings
A song from Mary Kelly springs,
And to the whole wide world she sings.
For which, as I'm a music lover,
I'm off that tone-deaf bitch to smother.
Tom
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 287
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 4:49 pm: |
|
Scorched earth - Cut bush
I fear, Tom, the dogs are baying
I fear, my son, the crowd is saying
Bring us this chap.
Bring us this Jack.
Ah my little boy
My little wind-up toy.
Settle your springs, fold them wings
For we must have chat
About this Jack.
Now, I have few lucid thoughts in me old head
And primary thought is to see them catholics dead.
I want you to understand, nay I want you to see
What horrendous bastards and knaves these
Catholics be.
They pollute the earth and I think you will find
They pollute me privates
And pollute me mind.
They have as leader god’s representative on earth
A papist catholic bastard of course by birth.
They infect us like some dreadful disease
And sit in parliament if you please.
The head of me own department
Sits well in catholic compartment
And does swallow the holy biscuit
And I’d kill the swine if I could risk it.
And there above him sits a catholic Lord
Ah, but could he swallow Jack’s sword.
So you see, young Tom I am invaded
And truth cannot be evaded.
We must kill the swine
And drink red wine
Blessed by the lord
And blessed by the sword.
I know, Tom that you thinking me is perverse
But if you follow me you will see the reverse.
For every man takes his four pence
And to think otherwise is nonsense.
They do plunge them slit
Of Catholic bitch.
They do touch that coil
And then recoil…
From that contact forged in sin
From that contract forged within,
Does such infamy begin.
For the ice is thin
And all fall in.
Why Tom, I meself did break that ice
And indulge meself in that lovely vice.
That universal plunge
Into that universal sponge
Of vice and sin
Skating over ice so thin.
Now take this blade and stab me in leg
Come on boy don’t make me beg.
Stab me boy and make it quick
Stab me where blood run thick
Just a prick boy, just a prick
That’s right boy, stick and nick.
For blood is the biscuit of the Lord
And with blood He will oil the sword
And with blood goes out the whore.
Ah, now I have me peace
Me blessed release…
Go Tom-Tom and beat my drum
Until kingdom come.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 289
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 5:40 pm: |
|
Dear Uncle C, I think you'll find
I have those Catholics in mind.
In fact, I thought I'd widen scope
And go to Rome to rip the Pope.
But next I'd have Archbishop too,
And all religious leaders who
Bore me stiff with things ethereal
Which I find all immaterial.
Call me knife squalid,
At least it's solid.
I'm off to rip Jehovah's Witness apace,
Will probably have door slammed in me face....
By the way, AP, the serious one's coming along. If you only wate a wile longer....
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 288
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 5:56 pm: |
|
Robert
I'll wate a wile longer...
I've a mind to do a serious one as well.
Been enjoying this exchange immensely. |
|
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