The architect was standing before one of his newly completed creations.
Its mistress, plentifully sprinkled with diamonds at eleven in the
morning, turned to him and said:
“It’s grand, and I’ve just decided not to employ a landscape gardener. I
know just what I want myself. Banked up right against the porch there I
want a real thick border—now what is that name? You know; those bright
red flowers that look so dressy—yes; now I have it—saliva.”
The architect was staggered for a moment, but soon recovered and came
back enthusiastically.
“The very thing,” he agreed. “And right in front a nice row of
spitunians.”
* * * * *
Dark—Going to the dance tonight, Sam?
Darker—Naw, I ain’t got any razor.
* * * * *