fourish. welcome back good brian of stratsongs upon babeson

methinks himself pleased with his long-coming and well deserved return and bears cunning and newfangled east-coast whit. excuse me... wit. tolerantly we passed our days blowing our nails in frenzied anticipation and unimaginable dread that ......some dire harm may have befallen our brave Sir Night Brian Huston. by agonizing degrees the nights passed and the days grew ever more tiresome, bleak even, as we mistook this pregnant elapse of anxious separation for abandonment and in our best estimations had fought resolutely not to fear the worst: Brian's untimely and quite complete undoing, or that he had been sold into gypsy captivity. but lo! what's that in the distance? (really, what is that) our eyes bleared by streaming tears, the horizon having drained away the day, a menacing bogey of incalculable stature? a lesser god perhaps? no mere mortal cans't there lie, shading that hulking silouette. would that SGSKSB were here to brave this ominous and quite clearly fearsome threat. In the throes of terror, driven to near lunacy we fancied were that it were Brian himself by the virgin mary (herself)! and just as if in a sleepy day-houred reverie bearing attendant clamour of people busying themselves with.. ...with whatever sort of things people might do in the day, passes through a stiff shaft of moonlight, dramatically graduated in form of course, and bore down on we that lay huddled on our knees, mouths agape called shrewdly together, peering steadily through the thicket like lambs, shivering, wettish and pelted by an unrelenting sleet and hail, none other than Sir Brian the worldly ruffian freshly returned from the East, tattered and torn, marred and bloodsoaked and with gashes here and there, perfectly poised and ready to strike at a potential danger (which lurks 'round sharp corners) the sinuous gawds of his of his steed frayed by stiff cross gales winced at not, and generally the commotion of his bravery. And merryman (so merry) well intact and unscathed nare a whit as testament to the brutish singlehandedness with which he had so unrepentantly glanced blows and delivered his merciless slaughterings and chopping to tiny bits of the medium-sized standing armies of Alabama Conneticut Massachussets or Wisconsin, brandishing bandits of Boston, tumorous thieves of Tuscaloosa, and those socially-diseased and needy females trying to get a horse-ride to the Kingdom of the Bay Area. Good noble Sir Brian. Brian of Drummingham, which rests directly against Rocksley, which is not so far from Brokendownvolvoshire, which lies just to the north-north west of Fallingdowndrunkington, (in which happen to reside Asa and Peter) wherein there just so happens to flow a brooke by the name of Cheney Brooke (for GSKBrian once rapped soundly a likeness of the man right out of the screen of an old and by all intents obsolete television in some considerable state of disrepair, and glass shot forth whereupon a dazzling pyrotechnic spectacle ensued for all of about 2 1/2/6 of a second) upon which a child each autumn evening at precisely 6 o'clock or 6:15 depending on the angle of the sun, launches from its banks into an unassuming and slow-moving pool a tiny red toy sailboat with light blue sails and white lines of trimming al'round and as it just so happens that small and wonderous boat that this boy loves so dearly would happen to be named Roxanne. And it is believed firmly by the townsfolk of both Rocksley and Drummingham (and the rest of the towns which shall not be named), respectively, have erected a bronze and very statuesque and amply staturous statue in the town square in place of the cross that once stood in it's stead. And on and onward henceforth the story of GSKBrian goes and goes and goes and goes and goes and goes.