zodiac5 Sep 2004

The above comment is true only inasmuch as Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is a steaming turd-burrito discharged by a fat bowel-challenged lardsack of self-glorifying guff and gobbled with relish by gabbling wolf-reared infants whose only salvation is their insistence that it is, in fact, fois gras. The most obvious retort here is that I don't know shit about "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I do, and you can't prove otherwise.