From the Fishouse

Tonight, there’s a lot of fancy cars in the All-Purpose Magical Tent. Fordcedes, Lamboursches. How they gleam. The sheen on them’s been shun so shiny they would dazzle you, Leif Erikson, if only you had eyes for it. This time been spent on buff and burnish and what yield of decals you’d not believe. Some pass this way rumouring electric windows and yes there’s skeptics and yes there’s those who’ll have you unfond of such manipulation but these are tonight the fancy cars—turn about the rows and ranks with me, the while they’ve been here’s not lost their lustre, these sedans, saloons, these limouscenes. Until the dandies come back swagger and with girl they’re ours, we’re up to the inflated headlamps in them. Yes, here and there of cracks, but did you see such license ever, of plates yellow also? Why look to jolly along, Francis Younghusband? There’s time for dawdle yet in the marvellous tent, saving your umbrella for an afterwards unfurling.