[from: "Sixteen Nights of Violent Orgasm With The Masters of English Literature"] T.S. Eliot tuned the radio, couldn't get rid of the static: Serves him right for being so fucking enigmatic. T.S. Eliot fixed his motor car, snapped the clutch cable - Betcha my youngest daughter could drink him under the table. T.S. Eliot lost his wallet when he went into town; Serves him right for hanging round with the likes of Ezra Pound. T.S. Eliot thinks he's famous because he is a genius - But don't cha know I'm ambivalent about the modernist achievement.