"I, Whit Waltman, whoop it up about Oscar Wilde.
Now see here, Oscar Wilde, you sing trash of the blankest-blank kind, and I know it.
I sing the delightful odor of he-goats and farmyards.
I, the apostle of the real and the sensual, lie on the grass and kick up;
I loaf and I flop.
Your poetry is even thinner than mine.
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