I the Porgus Bullorgus, The Roycester Oyster, The Pensinger Bullslinger, do hereby and forthwith ceremoniously and peremptorily declare and annul, that whereas the dangers pitfalls and comeuppances inherent in Merlot have been obvious to many but obscure to my own roseate sleepless baggy eyes, and furthermore albeit a multitude of cat-mites and catemites pursue me at every turn, in hopes perhaps of a final Armageddonesque denoumas, that nevertheless I spout, declare, pronounce and warrant the death of the once vital Green Nuclear Butterfly, it having flown once too often above the cannabis-soaked environs of Dyke-Man Street, in Creepskill New York, home away from home of the vast Nordamericano immigrant horde (and Porgie). Alas poor B-fly. More Butt-Fly than Butterfly it seems, it gleams, in reams and seams of B-fly juice abounding fruitful over fruitless heads behind the pet shop on Washington Street forever. Requiescat in Pacem, in Saecula Saeculorum, Amen.
