Porridge - under L.S.D.
Oh Pog where for art thou crieth the tramper miserablis, sitting in a puddle in a trog, what more could man want - but Pog, a steaming bowel of newtreeishas wheetie germ, to satisfy the inner man. You may larf, and loud I know, but wot about the snow: go man go. You can keep your scummie sausages and loafs of Bermaline, Porridge is supreme in between the pit hitting and early morning start. If I could take a horse and cart, all huts would have for free one hundred weight of cremotee, or rollyed oats to grace the throats of starving souls with empty bowls. No man would falter in his stride topped up with pog inside. Emancipate Porridge now. Must go, I know tum tum yearning, I smell burning.