Because they beg and bore,

[cadge from the text of your]

own devising. The then web spun lifted letters sit leaden, as
dust-encrusted thimbles on have-a-sham heroic display in my
intertextual cabinet. The kettle boils with rage against the enduring
freedom, the machinery of more and yet again time-gasping more,
wrenching letters dripping sore from my finger tips. Letters it
whistles and screams!

Leave
Everything
Till
The
End
Result

she says, "Come to tea!"

She repeats herself. "You can get a job writing letters in India as
they're all illiterate".

They're right enough these pinned flower heads that honour the dead and
sully the close and domestic field of my own sweet parlour that is
forever cosy.

See even at this early hour a new vistitor is posting a calling
card.

(The letter 'c' can be found, you know where it is, you copy,
right?)