I pledge allegiance to the vegetable lamb table, and I pledge oath to the flower power of the new generation. I promise to uphold the core values of corpulence, incendiarism and impressive sporting of the ineffable truth that eating the vegetable lamb will endow you with qualities such as a bail whereof all indemnities shall be discharged immediately upon receipt of three kisses and a photograph of a cat and a mind in the gutter. A filthy mind! Mind the new step across the border, the one between the corridor and the main room where hostages are held at gunpoint by confused-looking hobgoblins who would secretly much rather be sitting quietly in a caravan made of cheese. Three hobgoblins decided the time had come for a little fun. They flayed a mule so that we can live, so we owe it to ourselves and them to live like unbridled mutton and coconut milk burned with rice and tomato and melted tuna in the microwave which explodes with the force of a farting donkey.
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