NO USE CRYING OVER SPILT MILK

Our commiserations to misery;
She’s run off with the groom and they’ve eloped. They’ve had the honeymoon and the children and the divorce. The lot and the rest; they’re living apart now, at fifty five, and not a day goes hence.
-	Let me talk on this matter
-	Ah, but thou to be said, what say you on speech
-	Speak clearer perhaps, I say, and we’ll all less a little weep
-	Then, be me guised in clarity and recompense: that thou shalt not talk on that which(eth) one hath less knowledge than more”!?!”
-	Preach me more, thou art knave and sinner
-	Lest the fool than spinner of webs
-	And devour o’dream
-	Me the knave; me talk less sense, whence from those cotton fields run red and between flesh (that doth satisfy) come lie!
-	Careful, the reader doth take care
-	Unsightly stare be their own, not ours
-	Mock we, then, from afar
-	How so?
-	At a page length.
-	And thence?
-	Quite. Toil they to string the rest upon another; but without brother, for ‘tis within the text they find soul and not where-else.
-	Hah-ha! Then our health be miseried at reader’s stupidity?
-	Quite
-	“Dethatched I am” cry they
-	Like a child!
-	What little they say between themselves when searching for all else
-	All else?
-	Trapped
-	In their own Elysium?
-	Gods of nothing! Come, leave us; close thy text, and dismiss all rest.