I doth feel somewhat saddened by our treatment
of Rupert, Sir Qwert.		 Naught-the-circumstance!
He be lucky we did cart
his drunken ass home!
 
But! We tossed him about
like a sack yon potatoes,
missing his bed six times!		 I feel it be nefarious payback
for his countless acts of
bastardry toward me, hail!
 
Good Rupert!
Be thou okay?		 I bid thee a
good morning,
sunshine!		 Ugh.
 
  I see thou hath
the company of
yon puke-tub!		 I ran out of your spare helmets.
 
Hah-hah! What! Yon heathen! Bob! Out of mine way! Might wanna bring
a gallon of lamp oil
and a torch, champ.
 
Good show, says me!
But, I did not know one
could clean helmets
with a torch and oil.		 That's not for his helmets, it's
for his bed. I left a special
piece of my digestive tract
in his pillowcase.